


Dragon Age Prompts (Collection 2)

by jawsandbones



Series: Dragon Age Prompts [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alistair x Warden, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Inquisitor x Cassandra, Inquisitor x Josephine, Merrill x Isabela - Freeform, Multi, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 13:09:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 324
Words: 177,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13636923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: A collection of all the things too small to give their own post - generally prompts I receive. Tags will be updated accordingly!Multiple relationships, but the majority is: Fenris x Hawke, Zevran x Warden, Dorian x Inquisitor, etc etc. (Too many to fully tag - all relationships specified in the title so you can find what exactly you want.) A little something for everyone!





	1. Conditions (F!Hawke & M!Inquisitor)

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to prompt me anything, and you can always find me [ @jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)

He’s startled by the cold against his cheek. Sitting up straight, looking up over his shoulder, taking the bottle that she offers. She has one of her own, sits beside him. Legs dangling over the battlements, the sweeping wind of the mountains casting stray wisps of hair over their faces. “It’s lovely here,” she says. Staring down into the valley, the tents peppering the darkness like a string of fairy lights. Stars reflected below, so above, the moon hanging full in the sky. They wear no colors, no uniforms. They might be mistaken for any other. The Inquisitor takes a sip, the Champion does the same.

Making a face at the biting alcohol and Hawke chuckles. “Yeah, it’s not great. Varric missed it though, so I brought a case for him. These are the last two,” she says, holding up her bottle.

“You brought this all the way from Kirkwall?” Mahanon asks. She smiles as she crosses her legs, glass dangling in her fingers, elbow resting on her knee.

“I would do a lot more if Varric asked,” she says. _You people have done enough to her already._ Mahanon studies the edges of her. The laugh lines around her mouth, more weary ones at her brow. Hair wild and free, caught by the wind and swirling around her face. The scar on the back of her hand, the freckles on her cheek. Varric’s told him how she used to be. Something lighter, a little taller. She’s been mellowed by the years, humbled by all the rest. Varric confided once, in a moment of weakness, that he missed her laugh.

“Does it get easier?” Mahanon asks her quietly. Turning her gaze from the valley, to him. The smallest smile, gone as quickly as it had come. He’s so young. She puts her bottle on the rock beside her, moves a little closer to him. Her hand is warm on his back.

“No,” she says. “It gets harder.” His bottle is tight in his grasp, knuckles white. “Drinks help. Friends are better. You can forget, for a little while, when you have someone at your side. Someone who makes you not care about titles or quests or… saving the damn world.” Some part of her hates the book. The excited way they look when they realize they’re meeting the Champion. The disappointment when they realize she’s just Marian Hawke. All of it has always been conditional. They tolerated her as long as she could do something for them. Now they want her to fade away.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him quietly, “it didn’t have to be you.” Looking up from the bottle, looking at her.

“It didn’t have to be you, either.”


	2. The Man Made (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Alistair/sacrifice!Warden post-battle "you'll never see the man that you made"?

He opens his eyes to find her sitting up. Knees at her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. He studies the curve of her back, the steps of her spine. Pushing himself up only slightly, resting his head against her shoulder. His fingertips travel her spine, slow and gentle, up and up. There’s a bruise on her rib, faded now, healing still. A cut at her shoulder, and oh how she hates the shrieks. “Come back to sleep, love,” he says, voice still hoarse with waking. He lets his eyes close as he leans against her, listening to her heart beat, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing.

“Do you ever think about what will happen after the Archdemon is dead?” She asks. Alistair mumbles some thoughtful hum against her. If they succeeded in killing the Archdemon and clearing their names, then certainly a more senior Grey Warden would come to pick up the pieces? Then he could just go back to being some nameless face, a simple soldier. This was too much already. They’d managed a few things – but such a mountain lies in their path. Best not to think about it. Wrapping arms around her, pulling her back down with him.

Curling against her, his head in the crook of her neck. Her hand rests gently on his arm. He still has his eyes closed, while she’s staring up at the faded thread of the tent. “We should go to Antiva. Rivain, even,” she says.

“We’ll go anywhere you want.” It’s barely coherent, a sleepy grumble. She smiles, turns towards him. Curving against him, matching her body to his. Her arms around him, and she presses a kiss to the crown of his head. “Anywhere,” he murmurs.

* * *

He picks up her hand, holds it in his. There’s no chance of being a nameless face, a simple soldier. He’ll be king, the wanted queen not at his side. “We should have gone,” he says, “that night. I should have packed our bags, and I should have dragged you there.” Alistair has learned much, being with her. That he could not passively be part of the world. How to lead. How to stand tall. There’s iron now, in his bones, a metal that could not be broken. It cracks a little, with this.

He bends over, presses his forehead against hers. “I promise I’ll be good.” It’s what she would have wanted. A proper king for proper Ferelden, looking after common and noble alike. She’ll never see the man she’s made. A shuddering breath as he kneels back, tilts his head towards a burning sky. Closing his eyes, gathering courage. An arm underneath her shoulders, underneath her legs. He picks her up, cradles her body carefully.

Alistair carries her down the steps of the fort, and there’s only silence. No one makes a sound as they pass. Denerim burns, he burns with it, but his steps do not falter. “I promise,” he tells her again, softly, quietly.


	3. The Duel (Josephine x F!Inquisitor, Cassandra)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Slightly different prompt idea, if you have the time? f!Lavellan about to duel for Josie’s heart and going to Cassandra to get tutored in swordfighing because she an Elf mage and doesn’t know what she’s doing but she loves Josie and Cass is the only one who can help. Also, I love your writing btw!

She wants to hold it with both hands. Strike forward, but Cassandra easily steps aside, countering with a strike of her own. The sword goes tumbling out of her hand, clatters to the floor. “This is miserable,” Cassandra says.

“This is why I need your help!” She fires back, ears flat with frustration, back of her neck burning red. Marching back to where the sword lies, picking it up. She wants to hold it with both hands, treat it like a staff. Were it a duel of her making, she would have that man burnt to a crisp before he dared take one step towards her Josie. Lavellan brushes back a strand of stray hair, faces Cassandra once again. She thinks she might spy a smile from the warrior.

A step forward, and swords meet. A step back, brushing aside her stroke. “Watch your feet,” Cassandra says as she begins to walk a circle around her. “Not literally!” Quickly follows. “You do not want to trip over something, Maker forbid. Be _aware_.” A strike that swerves left, crashes right. Lavellan only manages to barely just block it in time. Another begrudging smile.

“If your steps do not falter and you block his strikes for long enough, he will tire,” she says, “that will be your turn to move.” Cassandra gestures towards her, beckons her forward. Lavellan immediately takes the invitation, moves clumsily forward. Her staff was always an extension of herself, fluid movement, an easy stroke. This – the sword fights her. And Cassandra fights back. Lavellan hisses as her hand stutters, the sword falling. Raising her hand to her mouth, glaring at Cassandra as she looks at the cut on her hand.

“Lord Adorno will not make it easy for you, and neither will I,” Cassandra tells her. “Now! Be ready!” Lord Adorno would not make it easy, and neither would she. Lavellan scrambles for the sword, faces her opponent. Strike after strike, step after step, wound after wound. By the end of the session, her hand is covered in little cuts. She practices the steps Cassandra has shown her in her bedroom, until the candle burns itself out.

She meets Cassandra the next night, and the night after, and the night after that. “Not so hopeless,” Cassandra tells her on the sixth night. “You may even stand a chance.” Lavellan barks out laughter. Such confidence in her!

“Good to know,” Lavellan says, a grin on her face. A chance, yes, and a chance she will take. She will not simply _hand_ Josie over to some noble frump. Taking a deep breath, gripping the hilt tightly. Cassandra beckons, Lavellan moves. Metal against metal, over and over. She focuses on what she’s fighting for. She will _win_.


	4. In Asking (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Fenris/male mage Hawke: Hawke has a chronic disease/condition and makes his own herbal tea to alleviate symptoms. One day he runs out of a vital herb that does not grow in Kirkwall and it will take a week to ship, Hawke can’t wait that long. Let me know if you need more detail or it doesn’t make sense.

He is no stranger to pain. He knows what the ache feels like, deep in the bone. Some ancient hurt still in the blood, flowing through every vein. In the hours before all others wake, he stretches. Massaging at his arms and at his legs, trying to wipe away the pins that prick at the corner of his markings. Fenris watches the way Hawke walks, recognizes it all too well. The hunched shoulders, the smaller steps. The deep sighs, shuddering breath. Leaning on his staff and doing every little thing to try and make it stop, to not make it worse.

The others are going to the Hanged Man, Hawke is going home. Fenris pauses in the street, slowly follows after Hawke. In time to see him duck into an alleyway, to lean against the wall, slowly fall to his knees as he struggles to breath. Fenris instantly drops to his knees before him, reaching out to him. Hawke holds onto him tightly, hands shaking. “I never wanted you to see me like this,” he weakly laughs. Fenris’s ears drop, flatten, the line of his mouth worrying. “I’m usually so good at ordering the herbs I need, but we’ve been so busy lately and I – forgot. Can you believe it?”

“Tell me what you need, and it is yours,” Fenris says.

“It’s fine, I already ordered more, and it’s just taking a long –”

“Hawke,” Fenris interrupts quietly, “what can I do?” Fenris’s hands are on his shoulders, his back, gentler than he deserves. Hawke looks up, feels guilt at the words that slip from his mouth.

“Stay with me.” Small silence, looking at each other, and Fenris slowly nods. Slipping an arm under his, around him, helping Hawke to his feet. He draws Hawke’s arm over his shoulder, picks up his staff. They take the backstreets Fenris knows so well, away from prying eyes. Hawke can only lean on him, every step burning agony. It’s no relief to sit, but it is better just to be away from the street, safety inside the estate.

“You should have Bodahn draw a hot bath,” Fenris says as he kneels before him. Taking off his gauntlets, letting them rest on the floor beside him. “It will help ease some of the pain.” Some startled noise tangles on Hawke’s tongue as Fenris brings Hawke’s foot into his lap, begins to untie the boots.

“Please,” Hawke says weakly, “you don’t have to do this.” Fenris ignores him, undoes the other boot. Hands squeezing on Hawke’s ankles, fingertips digging into skin, slowly massaging their way upwards. The favor screams red around his wrist, and Hawke can’t help but stare at it.

“When will the herbs arrive?” Fenris asks.

“Three days out, still,” Hawke says.

“Every morning you will take a hot bath, and then I will help you with this,” Fenris says. Hawke hates this, hates that it helps, hates himself.

“Fenris, please, you don’t have to do this.”

“Why?” He snaps angrily, looking up. Frowning behind choppy bangs, his hands still around Hawke’s leg. “You told me once that there is no shame in asking for help.”

“It’s – it’s not that.”

“You think that this – Hawke. I am helping you because I choose to, not because you – you are a foolish, ridiculous man,” he says, the last worst muttered underneath his breath.

“I know,” Hawke says quietly. Fenris continues his work, pointedly looking only at Hawke’s knee. Hawke can only look at him, and even without the massage, Hawke thinks he still would have felt better just simply being in his presence.


	5. Breakfast (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: The chronic pain prompt was amazing, could we maybe have more of it?

It’s difficult, to pull himself from the bath. Content to simply lie in liquid warmth, eyes closed, feeling weightless. Getting out is a harsh reminder of gravity, of the pain like an itch, creeping back into his blood. Wearing a light tunic, softer leggings, his hair still tousled and wet. Hawke goes to wait on the couch in the study, by the fire, listening to the sounds of the city just outside his window. Better still when he hears the knock, waves away Bodahn, answers it himself. Fenris regards him from head to toe, nods approval. “I’m glad you took my suggestion,” he says.

“Of course,” Hawke says, “did you want anything for breakfast?” Fenris shakes his head. Even from the short walk from his mansion to the estate, he wore his gauntlets, full armor. He makes his way into the study, undoing the clasps as he goes. Setting them neatly on the table, gesturing for Hawke to sit.

“I was wondering if I could do something for you first?” Hawke asks, holding out his hands, looking far too eager. Fenris regards them warily for a moment, before carefully placing his own hand in his. Hawke claps his hands over his, palms warm, smile bright. “I’m going to use some magic, so tell me if it bothers you and I’ll stop right away.” Fenris slowly nods. Another smile from Hawke. Fingertips pressing into Fenris’s palms, thumbs working over his knuckles.

Fenris watches curiously, as the lyrium markings under his skin ignite with the touch of magic. Pressing against him, working against the markings. It feels almost like putting his hand by the fire, that comforting warmth that licks up his arm. “I know you’ve had some trouble with this too,” Hawke says, looking only at what he’s doing, not noticing the way Fenris raises his head to watch him. “I’ve been practicing my healing.” Fenris quickly looks back at his hand once Hawke lets go, looks up.

Holding his hand out, clenching it into a fist. Stretching back out again, staring at his palm. Turning his wrist, flexing his full range of movement. There was a time when another mage would pour his magic into him. To keep the markings sharp, is what he was told. This was… different, but the results the same. For the first time in a long time, he could move without feeling the dull ache of pain between his bones. Fenris looks up at him, holds his fist against his chest. “Did it work?” Hawke asks.

“I – yes,” Fenris says, “thank you.” Hawke rests his hands on his hips.

“If you wanted, I could do whatever else you wanted,” Hawke says. “No point in these sessions being just for me.”

“It’s an, interesting proposition. I would have to think on it,” Fenris says.

“Take your time. I’m here anytime you need.” Only then does Hawke finally sit on the couch. Sideways, one leg bunched underneath him. Fenris kneels behind him, lets his hands press into Hawke’s back. All the while thinking of how this one hand, one arm, doesn’t hurt. It’s been so long, he’s forgotten what it feels like. Such a difference, looking between the two. Hawke sighs as he lets his head drop, his hands folded on his lap. It jogs Fenris out of his thoughts.

“We should eat breakfast together, after,” Hawke says, his words half mumbled, his eyes closed.

“Alright,” he says, the slightest smile touching his lips.


	6. Fading (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: A zevwarden prompt, where the warden realizes and comes to terms with the fact that her feelings for zevran are overpowering any feelings she once harbored for tamlen

It’s written like a diary she never kept, memories that fade day by day. She can no longer remember the lines of his face, all the little details that used to come so easy. Instead she’s filling the pages with another, the color of his eyes, the way his hands feel on his skin. It used to feel right, easy, standing by Tamlen’s side. Easy. They were the hot-headed fools of the clan, running around together. When they teased that one day they would be bonded, she didn’t argue with it. She never wanted to be bonded in the first place, but if it must be someone, then at least it would be Tamlen.

There’s more guilt in her now, than love of him. If she had not been so eager, if she had dragged him to the Keeper when they first discovered the cave… perhaps he would still be alive. She would still be part of the clan. She would be on her way to the Free Marches with the rest of them, away from the Darkspawn horde. She would never have met – “ _Amor_. You look so lost in thought,” Zevran says from behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist. The other brushes hair from the nape of her neck, breath warm, lips soft, kiss sweet. Resting his chin on her shoulder, squeezing her tightly.

“Are you going to tell me what has you occupied so?” he asks. She turns in his arms, reaches up. Fingertips at the curve of his jaw, thumbs brushing over his cheeks.

“I can’t remember now,” she says with a smile, tapping her forehead against his.

“Am I that much of a distraction?” His hands are wandering her back, the very curve of her, tangling in her hair. Zevran is a sun all his own, banishing her clouds. She keeps her guilt locked away, for the comfortable love she did not love enough. For knowing that if she had the chance to go back, she would do it all again. Zevran came to kill a Warden and the Warden she would be.

“Yes,” she laughs.

“Hurrah me,” he murmurs against her lips, leaning into the kiss.


	7. A Drink (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Want to grab a drink" for Fenhawke? :)

“Are you alright?” Hesitantly asked as he holds onto the upper railing of the bus. She’s been crying for the past five minutes, face buried into her purse. The bus was completely empty except for her, him and the poor bus driver listening to her sob. She raises her head, cheeks streaked with ruined makeup.

“He dumped me!” She wails.

“I’m – I’m sorry,” he says, stiffly patting her shoulder twice with his free hand. She shudders breath, shoulders heaving, sniffling as she rubs her face with her hands. She only really succeeds in smearing eyeliner.

“Hey,” she says, fisting a hand into his shirt, pulling him down, “come drink with me. You seem nice and drinking alone sucks and I really want to drink and everyone else is probably asleep, please.” Her eyes still shine bright with tears, her face hopeful. His very soul groans, looking at this stranger, her hand still in his shirt.

“On one condition,” he says. “Which is?”

“Hold still.” He pulls down his sleeve over his hand, wrapping it around himself. One hand tilts her face upwards, holds it there. With his sleeve, he gently rubs away the smudged makeup. Fresh faced and pink cheeked from his attentions, she no longer looks as though she had been thoroughly sobbing just minutes ago.

* * *

“He tells me that he can’t date me because I’m too tempting. Oh, it gets better. He says that the temptation would be fine but he wouldn’t know what to tell his pastor. He would’ve told a priest every detail because of this,” she raises both hands, making quotations in the air, “sin.” She rolls her eyes, reaches for her drink, and downs the rest of it. “I mean, I’m all for you-do-you but he couldn’t have told me this when I asked him out?”

He snorts, laughs into his drink. She grins at his laughter, leans towards him. “You’re pretty cute, you know. I bet he’d find you too tempting too,” she says.

“You certainly speak what’s on your mind,” he says as he rests an elbow on the counter. Picking at the drops of condensation on his glass, the smile still on his face. Conversation comes easy with this Hawke, less troublesome than it might be with others.

“Look,” she says, holding her hand out toward him as she speaks, “I like to be honest. And honestly Fenris? You’re a lot of fun. I like talking to you. This one, weird ass drinking session is not going to cut it. This is the start of a beautiful friendship, I know it.” She’s pulling out her phone, tapping quickly, sliding it down the counter towards him. It’s open to a blank contact page. “Yes?” He chuckles under his breath as he picks up her phone.

“Yes,” he says, putting in his information.


	8. Maps (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Oh my lord zevran and circle mage warden was cute! Please do more ;;A;;/

She sits with her elbows firmly planted on the table, her head in her hands. Palms squeezing against her temples as she stares down at the map. The candlelight is burning low and she still has no idea where they are and where to take them. She’s only momentarily surprised by the feeling of someone behind her. Leaning against her, his hands clasped behind his back and his chin resting on the top of her head. “You are sitting still, my Warden, and yet you still seem so lost,” he says.

“Help me,” she groans. He chuckles lightly, ruffles her hair with his hand as he moves to sit beside her. Gently taking one of her hands in his, holding it under the table on her knee. With his free hand, he begins to point.

“We are roughly here,” he says, pointing near an unmarked spot. “But we wish to go to Orzammar, yes? The easiest is to follow this road,” moving to a thin line and upwards, “to find the entrance here. There are many places to stop along the road for supplies and the like. However, Loghain’s soldiers would be patrolling the Imperial Highway, so we might want to go around it. That would take us into the mountains where there is no real road.”

“Zevran, I can barely find my way down a legitimate road. What makes you think I’ll be able to get us through mountains?” She says flatly.

“That’s why you have me,” he says, pressing a proud hand against his chest. She chuckles under breath, shakes her head as she lets her other hand fall over the map, leans towards him.

“If you get us lost, Arainai, you will have your own personal raincloud over your head for a week,” she tells him.

“Ah, trust me Warden, all will be well.”

“I do trust you,” she says as she laughs. The laughter for him, is slower. Her eyebrow twitches when she lies. It didn’t move, at this. She _trusts_ him, the assassin who had been sent to kill her. When he lived among the Crows, he didn’t even trust those he had known for years. She gives forgiveness and friendship so easily.

“I will not let you down,” he says softly, squeezing her hand warmly.


	9. Mabari Pt.2 (F!Hawke & Krew)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: As a follow up to the Barks dying prompt, which was amazing btw, can I prompt Hawke getting a new mabari? It could be a puppy for her to start over with- something new for her life on the run, or maybe she meets it fully grown like the warden did? Going through a loss of my family's dog and looking for a hit in the feels. <3
> 
> In response to [this prompt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7304044/chapters/31013427)

“Hawke,” Aveline says, reaching out, putting her hand over hers. They sit together at Hawke’s kitchen table, so quiet in that now emptied estate. “How are you feeling?” Hawke makes the attempt at a smile.

“I’m still exhausted. Isn’t that silly? It’s been over a week,” she says. Aveline’s smile is slight, but warm, and she holds Hawke’s hand tightly and comfortingly.

“It isn’t silly,” she tells her softly. “You’ve been through a lot.” The others arrive slowly but surely. Merrill, her arms filled with flowers. She spreads them over the counters, in any space she can find. Isabela’s brought goblets, ones which Aveline narrows her eyes at. They’re made of gold. Fenris puts three bottles on the table, wine, of course. Varric rolls in a crate of ale. Anders and Sebastian are moving through the cupboards, setting the plates on the table.

Bodahn and Sandal cover every spot on the table with food, sit with them. “All I’m saying is that it presented some excellent opportunities,” Isabela says, shrugging, as she stuffs her face with shepard’s pie.

“Illegal opportunities,” Aveline corrects her, reaching for more beans. Anders and Fenris both have forks buried into the last leg of the turkey, glaring at each other. Merrill has her cheeks full, like a squirrel before winter, as if she’s enjoying her last supper. Varric raises eyebrows at Hawke from the other end of the table, raising his glass. Hawke raises hers as well, and they make a silent toast to each other, drink at the same time.

Easily lost in alcohol and friendship, Hawke leans back in her chair with a smile on her face. Watching all of them talk and argue, laugh with each other. Almost able to pretend that nothing’s changed, as though there isn’t still rubble on her doorstep. Hawke sits up straight in her chair when something wet presses itself against her leg. Again and again, little snuffling noises by her feet. Hawke sets her glass on the table, leans over to find out what it is.

Everyone slowly dips into quiet as Hawke picks up the puppy in her arms, sets it in her lap. Curiously sniffing at her tunic, looking for dropped bits of food. Paws far too large for its little chubby body plant itself on her chest. Looking up at her with innocently wide eyes, tongue pink and slobbery against her chin. “Enchantment!” Sandal says, clapping his hands together.

“Surprise!” Varric says, shrugging. “I guess someone escaped the room we put him in.”

“I thought I closed the door all the way!” Merrill says.

“A little trickster, that one,” Isabela laughs.

“He is a gift,” Fenris says.

“From all of us,” Anders tells her.

“We thought we’d leave the naming to you,” Sebastian says. The puppy is wiggling in her arms, stubby tail wagging as much as it is able, tongue out and panting happily.

“We hope you like him,” Aveline says. Hawke looks up at all of them, grinning from ear to ear.

“He’s perfect,” she says, scratching the puppy between his ears. “Absolutely perfect.” Looking from one face to the other, all the best things found in Kirkwall. Her friends. Her family.


	10. Clean Shaven (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: More of hawke dealing with the chronic pain please? Maybe when they both flee from Kirkwall, he can’t find any of the herbs he needs while being on the run? What would happen then?

It’s a luxury now, to sleep in a bed. To rest in his arms, his head leaning back against his chest. Fenris’s arms around him, lithe fingers threading through his hair. Even in a room, a bed, as small as this, he’s content. Eyes closed, feeling the heat from the fire flicker on his face. He had shaved, the night before they left. The smallest thing to make him look a little less recognizable. Fenris took one look at him, and snorted laughter. He was laughing less when it came time to dye his own hair.

White, now muddied black, but still his recognizable Fenris. To others, less so. Simply another elf with markings on his face, passing through. Fenris rests his cheek against his head, restless hand playing with the buttons on Hawke’s tunic. “We can try again in the next town,” he says softly. Hawke opens his eyes at his voice.

“We’ll see,” Hawke says. He doesn’t miss the frown that casts over Fenris’s face.

“We should have bought more,” he says.

“We already cleaned them out of their stock,” Hawke tells him softly, “we didn’t have a choice.” In the bags beside the bed are three tins. Two are empty, one is nearly so. Hawke pushes himself up, out of Fenris’s embrace. Sitting on the bed, turning toward him, fingers curling against his cheek. “I can do this even without the tea.” The frown turns to something more like worry, concern in the line of his mouth. Looking up, catching Hawke’s gaze, returning his gesture. Fenris’s hands are always slightly cool, the chill of lyrium, perfectly calming.

“I know you can. I simply – I do not like the thought of you being in pain,” he says. Hawke thinks he doesn’t see it. Those still moments after hours of walking. Leaning on his staff, closing his eyes, pressing a hand to his temple. Hawke thinks he can’t feel it. The magic he cycles inward, trying to manage what cannot be healed. Hawke smiles, turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to the palm of Fenris’s hand.

“I’ll be alright,” Hawke murmurs as he leans forward, “I have you.” Fenris claps a hand over Hawke’s mouth, just before the kiss, pushes him back.

“We will try the next town. And the one after that, if necessary,” Fenris tells him. It’s not a discussion. Hawke smiles behind the hand, shrugs his shoulders, nods agreement. Only then does Fenris let his hand move, shifts himself forward. Hands on his face, holding him tightly, kissing him roughly. “You still look ridiculous without your beard.” Hawke laughs as he leans back, rubs a hand over his chin. The stubble scratches against his skin.

“Maybe I should keep it like this.”

“ _No_.”


	11. Lothering (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: As someone with chronic pain- those chronically ill Hawke pieces mean so much to me- especially how he tries to keep going, not be a burden on his friends despite how bad he's hurting. If it's not too much trouble I would absolutely love more.

It reminds him of Lothering. Standing in the field with his father, working the field. Hands shaking around the pitchfork, palms red and raw while his knuckles burn white. Sweat on his brow and down his back, the sun scorching every inch of him. Ignoring the ache deep in the muscle of him, the very bone. Laying in his bed at night, feeling like he’s still on that field. Still, waking up the next morning and doing it all again.

It reminds him of Lothering. They could see the fires burning in the distance. The stench of it, as though the horde itself was rotting away. The sound of marching feet, the cacophony of weapons. The echo of screams. Fleeing, his mother’s hand in his. Pulling her with him as they run. Looking over his shoulder, watching his home burn. Watching people die in chaos and in fear. Wanting to catch his breath, to lie down, to give up. Wanting it all to stop.

It reminds him of Lothering. Hawke stands in the courtyard before Meredith, staff in his hands. She burns with the fury of red lyrium, the perceived injustice of her post. He can feel his magic growing weaker with each pull, expulsion of flames from his fingertips. He’s ignoring the well running dry, the heaving, gasping ache that threatens to drag him down. Grasping hands that wrap around every muscle, every bone, every vein and every organ. Squeezing him tightly, squeezing him raw, and he can barely move from the pain of it.

It reminds him of Lothering. Kirkwall burns around him. The acrid smell of lyrium, the harsher scent of sulfur. Metal clashing against metal, bronze statues taking heavy steps, cracking the stone below them. The shouts in the distance, the yelling, the screaming. Hawke’s eyes flick over to the rest of them, facing the statues imbued with Meredith’s strange magic. They’re holding, but for now. He wants to catch his breath. He wants to lie down, to give up. He wants it all to stop.

Hawke shudders breath, stands up straight. Stepping forward, meeting her sword with his staff. Casting it heavy to the left, sweeping about the blade-hilt to her face. Cutting her cheek, making her scream in rage and stagger back. Meredith claps a hand to her cheek, grits her jaw together. Teeth clenching, grinding, eyes wide and hateful. Another deep breath, gathering the magic in his fist. Feeling it flow through the line of him, letting it loose in her direction.

Swallowed by lightning, and Meredith roars. Fenris turns in that direction, recognizes the sway in Hawke’s step. With a single nod to Aveline, he pushes away quickly, to Hawke’s defense. Meredith is still screeching, raising the sword above her head, swinging it down. This time, it meets another blade. Purest lyrium, liquid light, a ghost that glows blue, presses his hand against his chest. Hawke puts his hand over his. “Go, Hawke. Help the others,” Fenris tells him.

His staff rakes against the stone as he cracks it upwards like a hammer, the force of his magic behind it. It sends Meredith flying, crashing into a pillar. “I’m not leaving you to do this alone,” Hawke says. “This is dangerous, you should go back to the others!” Fenris puts both hands on the hilt of his sword. Stepping beside Hawke, frowning at the Meredith rising to her feet.

“As if _I_ would leave _you_ alone,” Fenris says, “together then.” Less like Lothering here. Drawing strength from his words, the others that fight to drive back this horde. Hawke chuckles slightly, the smile easy on his face. He’ll be sore in the morning. Still, when won’t he be? He’ll still get up, do it all again.

“Yes, together,” Hawke says.


	12. Inquisition (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay wow. The chronic pain? Maybe you’ve gotten tired of people asking you this lol but... Imagine how they’d deal once they can’t get any more, because the plants Hawke needs are imported, and Ferelden is at war with an ancient magister >:D also think about him eventually leaving to help the inquisition when he’s in constant paaaaaain

Fenris’s knee on the bed, a palm pressing into the pillow. His other hand drifting over Hawke’s arm, slowly letting himself fall into the bed behind him. Propping himself up on an elbow, pressing a kiss to Hawke’s neck. Shifting closer, under the blanket, his legs tangling in Hawke’s. Hand drifting over his chest, letting his head drop the pillow. Hawke’s hair smells like lavender and clean, the slightest bit of sweat from a warm night. Closing his eyes, breathing him in, holding him close. Hawke’s hand slowly moves, tangles in his.

“Good morning,” Fenris says. A small lie, at that. It’s far past morning. He had tried to rouse Hawke earlier, seen the look that flickered across his face. He had run hands through his hair, kissed his forehead, let him sleep. Today would be one of those, slightly worse than the rest. He doesn’t begrudge Hawke wanting to sleep through it. He wishes he could do more.

“Morning,” Hawke says, voice gruff and hoarse, his eyes still closed. Breathing in as he slowly turns to lie on his back, Fenris shifting over to allow him this. A yawn, rubbing his eyes. Blearily blinking in his direction, letting his hands link over his stomach. Fenris pinches a stray lock of hair between his fingers, that piece that always seems to curl over his forehead, brushes it back with the rest.

“’s getting long. I’ll have to cut it soon,” Hawke says, a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle another yawn. Fenris smiles at that, the easy way his hand goes back to the other. “Have to look presentable for the Inquisition.” The smile is granted a quick death. Muddied into something like a frown, some sad line, worry in his brows.

“You still want to go, then?” He hopes that every morning that decision might change. That he would come to his senses and realize it’s better to stay, or, at least take Fenris with him.

“I have to, love,” Hawke says softly. Fenris lets himself fall back into the bed, mirroring the way Hawke is. Staring at the ceiling, hands linked over his belly.

“You do not. It is not your responsibility.” Hawke’s turn to shift, to prop himself up on an elbow, lie on his side. Looking at Fenris, reaching out, and taking his hand in his. Gently pulling it upwards, pressing a kiss to Fenris’s knuckles.

“I know,” he says, “I still have to go.” Fenris stubbornly stares at the ceiling a few moments more, before angrily turning to him.

“It’s foolish.”

“I know.”

“You will run out of the herb and have no way of getting more. You will spend your time with the Inquisition in pain.”

“I know.”

“You will be _alone_.”

“I’ll have Varric.” Fenris scoffs, turns away from Hawke. Wearing a point into the windowsill, his free hand clenched into a fist. “Fenris,” Hawke says softly. Leaning down, burying his head into the crook of Fenris’s neck. “I’m not looking forward to it either, but I have to do this.” Unfair. Fenris softens, a fist unclenched. Moving, pressing Hawke back into the bed. One leg over him, a knee at the other side. Straddling hips beneath his, hands wrapped around Hawke’s wrists. Leaning down, letting white hair brush against his forehead.

“Take me with you,” he says fiercely. Hawke only smiles, tilts his face upwards to ghost a quiet kiss on Fenris’s lips.


	13. A Simple Gesture (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Any of prompt of your choice for zevwarden?

Such a simple gesture. She reaches for him as she walks by, ruffles a hand through his hair. She looks almost amused at his reaction – a tilt forward, a startled whirl of his head to peer over his shoulder at her. She does it again, later. In her tent together, face to face, and she leans forward. Threading a hand through his hair, and some worried stitch at her brows when he doesn’t react. Zevran leans forward, takes her face in his hands. There’s no change in her at that. A smaller one when his hands slip to her throat. Looking at his arms, looking at his face. Wrapping her hand around his wrist.

In the morning, she stands outside the tent. Closing her eyes, raising her arms above her head. Awake while no one else is, letting her arms fold, fall, cross. She turns, slightly, looks at the unmoving tent behind her. Empty, as it always is in the mornings. He slips out, sometime during the night. He never stays. He doesn’t hold her. She doesn’t hold him. It’s better this way. She’s still learning to trust him. He doesn’t trust her.

She does it again. She touches his shoulder first, to let him know she’s there. Her fingers through his hair. He doesn’t break his sentence, doesn’t stop the words coming out of his mouth as he talks to Alistair. She sits beside him, in front of the fire, watching his mouth move. It comes so easy for him. Leliana has her face in her hands, listening attentively to the story. Even Wynne, and she thinks Sten might have smiled. She brushes hair behind his ear. He turns to look at her, the smile lingering on his lips.

He asks, every time. “May I kiss you?” She says yes. “May I touch you?” She says yes. Everything he might do, he asks, lets her know first. Nothing unexpected. Nothing without her permission. He still doesn’t ask what she wants him to. So, one night, she feigns sleep. Waits for him to shift, to move. She reaches out, touches his arm.

“Stay,” she says. He looks at her in silence. She can practically see him toiling with it. She knows his fear, it’s one she had. The knife under the pillow. An enemy at their back. She asks him to stay, and in that question, another. She tells him she trusts him. She asks if he does the same. He leans back down, lying on his side, looking at her.

“Yes,” he says.

She sits beside him at the fire. He’s telling some other Crow misadventure, of children running through the streets and stealing coin. A simple gesture. She reaches for him, ruffles a hand through his hair. He doesn’t stop his story. She stands, and he pauses, worried she might go. She stands behind him, unseen at his back, and braids his hair. Not an enemy. Something different.


	14. Not Looking (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Fenris/Hawke “I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not looking.”

It’s so easy to say yes. To give in. To reach out and accept, without thinking of anything else. The means to defeat him. A way to never be afraid. To never be captured, chained, taken away. To never feel lesser. To be equal. He gives agreement, and it is as though his mind goes blank. His body moves, in a way he doesn’t want it to. She barely catches the first swing of his sword, metal striking against the hastily raised barrier as she stumbles back. He expects anger. Instead, shock. Disappointment in every line of Hawke’s face. It stings worse than anger.

He falls from the bed, onto the floor, raises himself onto hands and knees. Struggling for breath, touching his throat where Isabela’s blade had pierced it. Leaning back, looking at the others still huddled in sleep, Marethari weaving her spell. Fenris rises to his feet, reaches for his sword. He leaves, the door slamming behind him, races through the streets. He throws his sword across the hall, once he’s safely inside the mansion.

He fell to temptation. So easily. Is that what she faced every night in her dreams? The demon had offered up everything he wanted and he just… said yes. Then all of him, gone. A cage of a different sort, a collar of the worst kind. He sits at his table, his head in his arms, tapping his foot. Restlessly, without stopping. Her eyes had been so wide. Never once did she think he might ever attack her. Never once did he think he might ever attack her. He had betrayed her. Failed her. He doesn’t realize how long he sits, not until he hears the chair opposite him move.

Raising his head, and there Hawke sits. Her hands folded on the table, tilting her head and wearing a sympathetic smile. “How are you feeling?” He forces himself to sit up straight. “When I woke up, you were gone. I was worried,” she says. He wants her to be angry. That, he would understand. She should be angry.

“Fenris,” she says quietly, reaching out. Her fingertips barely graze against his arm. “I shouldn’t have taken you into the Fade. No one should have come with me. I’m sorry.”

“No. The fault lies with me,” he says. His hands clench into fists. He looks away. Still, he cannot escape her. The broken mirror, on the floor and against the wall, reflecting only her. The gaze that lingers on him. The small frown that passes, the way she bites her bottom lip. Looking at the table, and then back at him. Her fingers tremble on his arm. She looks so much younger, like this. Softer. She is Hawke when people are looking. Marian, when no one else is.

He turns back to her, and she seems relieved. “The demon used magic on your mind. It wasn’t fair. You shouldn’t blame yourself,” she says.

“It won’t happen again,” he tells her.

“I know,” she says, and that fleeting smile. She pulls her hand back.


	15. A Punch (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little something I wanted to write

She is a calm word, a gentle smile. When that fails, it is magic – a shove in the right direction, a push when needed. So when Hawke rises to her feet and smashes her fist into his face, it’s hard not to take notice. He stumbles back, holding his nose, but Hawke reaches out, catches him by the lip of his shirt and smashes his face back down onto the table. Isabela is cheering, Aveline is slack-jawed. She shakes out of it quickly, practically hops their own table to get to Hawke. Fenris follows soon after, both of them at either side of her.

“You fucking bitch!” He says, holding his smashed nose, bleeding lip. Blood drools between his fingers, while the only blood on Hawke is his on her knuckles.

“Hawke, that’s enough,” Aveline says through clenched teeth. A hand around Hawke’s arm, the other on her shoulder, keeping a steady hold on her. “Hawke. You’re done.” Fenris stands with his back to him, his face to her. She stares past him, a frown unwavering.

“Hawke,” Fenris says. A blink, turning to look at him. Her shoulders sag, and Aveline cautiously lets her go. Fenris lets his hand drift, an arm over her shoulders, leading her from the table and out of the Hanged Man. Hawke holds her bruised and bloody hand in her other. Her hair slips over where it had been tucked behind her hair, stray strands that curl against her cheek.

“Are you going to tell me why?” Fenris asks, his hand slipping down her back, resting there.

“He said something – untoward,” she says.

“About you?” Hawke’s lips purse together, and they walk a few steps more in silence. She shakes her head, and her hair moves with her, raising her head to look at him.

“No,” she says, because it’s Hawke and Hawke doesn’t lie, “about you.”

“I see,” he says. “Do I want to know what he said?”

“Probably not,” she tells him. The smile quirks at the edge of his lips, and he chuckles under his breath.

“I suppose I should thank you, then. For defending my honor,” he says. She guffaws laughter, and he is happy to see her happy. They tangle together as they walk home, whispered glances, muffled words. Shoulder to shoulder, fingers winding together.


	16. Keep Breathing (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you do 15 for female hawke and fenris? Their angst is what keeps me strong “Hang on. You’re gonna be okay. Keep breathing.”

“You came so quickly,” he says to her. They sit in the corner of a ruined tower, side by side on the musty floor. Passing the bottle to her, and she takes a gulp.

“Well, when you said it was Corypheus, how could I not?” The bottle lowering to her lap, fingers playing absentmindedly with the label. Varric gently takes it out of her hands, rests it on the stone beside him. “I thought we killed him,” she says.

“Yeah,” he says, “me too.” Hawke shifts, raising a knee, resting an elbow on it. She rubs her eyes, runs her hand down her face. Resting at her chin, tapping at her cheek. Her head lowers, and she runs her hand through her hair. Staring at the floor, and the words come mumbled.

“Now I can’t even kill someone right,” she says. Varric pushes the bottle even further away. “I mean, after all of it – mom, dad, Beth. Everything – they trusted me with the city and I, I rather fucked it up. Now this, Corypheus and the Conclave.” She turns to him, smiles. “I think the world is trying to tell me I deserve to die alone.” He doesn’t know what to say to make it better. This is _Hawke_. Hawke who would laugh, who would smile, who would always be there. This is Hawke. So quiet and melancholy, lost in the world and wondering her place in it.

“Fenris would be pissed to hear you say that,” he says softly. She chuckles under her breath. He isn’t sure if it’s real laughter, or something for his sake. Either way, it’s good to see a smile on her face again. All the things these people have done to her. Too much.

“Yeah, he would, wouldn’t he?”

“I noticed he didn’t come with you.” She shakes her head.

“With all the red lyrium you’ve been telling me about? I didn’t want to risk him getting infected somehow,” she says.

“I don’t imagine he took that well,” Varric says.

“No, no he did not.” Varric reaches out, pats her leg. She lets her knee fall, her stance slump. Sliding over, resting her head on his shoulder. She reaches for his hand, and their fingers link together. They sit in silence, listening to Skyhold just outside the door.

* * *

“Go,” Hawke says it instantly, without hesitation. “This is my,” _fault_ , “responsibility.” The Inquisitor wavers, hesitates and the demon creeps ever closer. “Go.” Said with more urgency this time. Turning to face the demon, rallying what magic she has left. A bolt from her staff, lightning on her fingertips and out of the corner of her eye, she can see them run towards the rift. There’s something like relief in that. Drawing the demon more towards her, away from them.

And when she lies on her back, her staff shattered and magic broken, blood on her lips, she can almost hear him. Closing her eyes, listening to Fenris’s voice. _Keep breathing_. She rattles breath and surely there’s a rib broken. _It’s going to be alright._ Except it isn’t. _Hawke_. He isn’t even here. She wishes he were. She wishes she could tell him how sorry she is. The rift closes. And Hawke dies alone.


	17. Remaining (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: hi bb, maybe 13 for pavellan “I can’t live without you. Don’t go. Please.”

He sits on the window sill, feet bare and with his knees pulled up to his chest. He has the window open, the cold breeze of the mountains sweeping upwards. Looking down into the courtyard, and he turns the letter between his fingers. There’s no shortage of people milling about and yet, Skyhold still feels so quiet. At least, to him. So many unfamiliar faces. Holding the letter still, holding the letter to his lips. Mahanon closes his eyes, under the slightest sigh.

It’s not enough – the words. Not enough when he wakes alone, not enough when he sleeps the same. He thought he would be strong enough to bear it, but finds himself weaker. The rifts keep him busy enough. Finding the ones that linger, closing each one by one. They were fading anyway, unable to draw from a now nonexistent Breach. Mahanon lets the letter flutter to the floor, stares at his hand. The green veins, the lines of ruin. Vines that curl around his fingers, his wrist, up his arm. Broken, blackened skin, partially smoke and ash. Eating him, from the inside out.

He had told Dorian that he should leave. Holding his face in his hands, whispering of how proud he was of Dorian’s wish to bring change to the home he loves so much. The Inquisition says he cannot go to Tevinter. Dorian tells him he cannot come. He always thought the anchor might be the end of him. He thought he’d have more time. Knowing now what he wished he knew then he would have told him not to go. He would have begged.

Clenching his hand into a fist, a wince at the flare of pain that accompanies every movement. Pressing it against his chest, resting his head on his knees. Chattering from the courtyard, sounds of laughter and he can’t write the words. Doesn’t know how to tell Dorian he’s afraid. So he remains, and regrets.


	18. Moving On (Anders x F!Hawke, Unrequited FenHawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: hi bb, maybe 28 for fenhawke? 

It’s the one thing she would never sell. Even after they landed in Kirkwall without a single copper to their name. Always it hung around her neck, hidden under her dress. After the estate became theirs again, Leandra wore it more proudly. This gold chain, that tiny emerald. When Hawke was young, so small and still so headstrong, she would curl in her mother’s arms and reach for it. “A token,” Leandra had told her, “from your father. A Hawke always gives a token to those they love.” Hawke sits on her bed, the staring at the necklace in the palm of her hand.

She had struggled with the wondering. Should the token be buried with Leandra? In the end, she decided it was better to be burned. She would take the ashes back to Lothering, one day. But the necklace, it couldn’t be burned with her. So Hawke keeps it, this token that doesn’t belong to her. She’s still in her funeral dress. Something nice, something proper, something that would have made Leandra happy. Not that it matters anymore. She looks up at the knock at her bedroom door and for a moment she thinks it might be _him_ – “Hawke?” The door opens and her shoulders sag.

Anders moves to sit beside her on the bed. “How are you doing?” He asks her softly. Reaching out with a tentative hand, letting it rest against her back. She hasn’t seen Fenris since that night. Or at least, he doesn’t look her in the eye anymore. Anders does. Arm over her shoulders, holding her tight. “Are you holding up?”

“I think so,” she says, leaning into his warmth. The token burns a fire in her fist. She sighs as she closes her eyes, resting her head against his. With his other hand, he drifts gentle fingertips over her arm. She had so easily forgotten how good it felt to be held.

“I’m so sorry Hawke. Is there anything I can do for you?” So softly spoken, such ruinous words. She pulls apart from him slightly. He has such brilliant eyes. Reaching upwards, curling fingers against his cheek, and he smiles.

“Stay,” she says, “don’t leave me.” He leans forward, presses his forehead against hers. “I can do that,” he says quietly.

* * *

He wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulls her close as they laugh. He presses an exaggerated kiss against her cheek and she playfully pushes him away. Fenris knows that look in his eye. Anders loves her. Fenris stares into his drink, squeezes the mug in his hands until his knuckles go white. Hawke laughs at whatever Anders whispers in her ear, and Fenris burns. How long. How long did it take for her to forget him? To move on? He presses his hand against his eyes. This is what he wanted. Wasn’t it? For Hawke to have someone to love her the way she needed. The way he couldn’t.

Anders moves forward, reaching for the cards in Isabela’s hands, and something slips from his shirt. It dangles there, and no one else seems to see it but Fenris. That gold chain, the tiny emerald. A token. Fenris’s chair scrapes against the floor as he pushes himself up to stand. Fleeing, fuming, running from the Hanged Man, fingers scratching at the knot, pulling the red from his wrist.


	19. Faint (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “You fainted, straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes." dealer's choice!

“Tell me about Tevinter parties,” Mahanon says. Almost time for the Winter Palace, the last night spent in Skyhold before leaving. They lie on the bed together, clothes scattered on the floor. Mahanon is leaning against Dorian, resting in his arms. Content in the warmth of each other, the slowly fading sun.

“Dreadful affairs, really. You had ones that were just for finding a good partner and then you had the ones that were all about blood magic,” Dorian says, his hands drifting over Mahanon’s chest. He raises his eyebrows as he sits up, looks over his shoulder.

“Finding a good partner?” He asks.

“More like finding the best bloodline with the most magic,” Dorian tells him.

“And how many wanted _your_ bloodline?”

“Enough.” Mahanon laughs, tilting his head back, hair escaping the messy bun and cascading over his shoulder, down his back. Dorian looks absolutely miserable at the memory, but there’s a quirk of a smile at the edge of his lips. A smile reserved just for Mahanon.

“I bet they were all vying for your attention.” There’s a mischievous light in his eyes, a grin to match. “Oh serrah Dorian, how you have bewitched me with your extraordinary wit and charm,” Mahanon dramatically sighs, casting a hand across his forehead. Closing his eyes as he sighs with a pout, falling backwards into Dorian’s arms. Dorian rolls his eyes, struggling with the grin as Mahanon squirms against him.

“Yes, yes, thank you, that’s quite enough,” he says. Mahanon reaches up, a hand against Dorian’s cheek while he presses the other against his chest.

“ _Monsieur_ Dorian! Won’t you take me home and make an honest wife of me?” With a scoff, Dorian instantly drops him, pushes him away. Mahanon goes rolling down the bed, arms around himself, shaking with laughter. “I bet all the pretty mages wanted you. Do you think your babies would come out with a little moustache?” Dorian instantly pounces, straddling Mahanon. His legs around his hips, finding his wrists with his hands. Pressing them against the bed, and leaning over Mahanon.

“You are having fun with this, aren’t you?” Dorian asks.

“Very much,” Mahanon says. The grin hasn’t left his face. There’s a flash of something, some spark in the back of Dorian’s mind. It would be scandalous to bring home Mahanon, a ring on his finger. The thought is fleeting, vanishing as Mahanon surges forward to capture a kiss, pulling Dorian’s bottom lip gently between his teeth. Pushing Dorian, rolling over, and they wrestle for control. Mahanon’s laughter rings through the room as they tumble from the bed, land heavy on the floor.


	20. Still (Solas x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: how about 45 for solavellan for the angst prompts ahhh make it painful 

“I knew it would be you.” Such a calm voice, words so softly spoken. Something gentler underneath, and it might be gratitude. “You made it difficult. You make – everything difficult.” It’s a ruin, this castle. Broken sunlight streams through the holes in the ceiling, vines hang and loop. Trees have grown into the foundation, mighty roots upon mighty roots creating something more fragile. The throne glitters darker gold. “Still,” he says, “you made one thing easy.”

Feathered birds upon the branches, chirping to each other, unawares of what is below them. The mosaic behind him has seen blood, been beaten. The eyes of it defiant still, a wolf unwilling to give up the hunt. She takes each step slowly. Towards that throne, where he sits. Letting her fingertips brush against his. He’s too weak to hold her hand. The other he keeps pressed to his chest, the blood spilling through his fingers. “And what’s that?” She asks as she kneels down before him.

She kneels willingly here, denied him each other time he asked. Looking up at him, and she knows there’s danger here still. His orbs destroyed. His magic severed. His armies defeated. A god walked, a god bleeds, but as long as he lives – Lavellan kneels, and Solas smiles. “To love you. I knew you would be my end and yet, I love you.” A terror on the battlefield in his armor, but now it is stained, discarded, and too large on a now smaller man.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she tells him, “any of it. We could have – we could have stayed by that waterfall.” He chuckles under his breath as he closes his eyes, leans his head back.

“If only,” he says. She rises to her feet, her hand slipping from his. She’s almost afraid to touch him. Her fingers curl at his cheek just as hair curls at hers, leaning forward. A kiss, to the crown of his head. He’s made a ruin of her world, killed friends, family. The worst is that she loves him too. He slept for so long, in darkness dreaming, alone and forgotten. Solas dies in silence, but he does not die alone. She will not forget him.


	21. Lucky Day (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "You punched me in the face while gesticulating wildly to a friend” FENHAWKE PLS

“Oh my god,” muffled through the hand he puts over his face. Eyes watering, shoulders hunched and everything in Fenris reels. He draws back his hand to his chest quickly, horrified eyes widening, not even feeling the sting of pain in his fist. Anders is crumpled in his chair, laughing helplessly while the woman beside the man he’s accidentally punched is losing it. Her drink wobbles in her hand unevenly as she doubles over, puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Holy shit,” she says as she wipes away tears of laughter, “you’ve got a mean backswing.” She points with the hand holding the drink, right at Fenris, while her other hand rests on the man’s shoulder.

“Agreed,” he says as he takes away his hand. There’s blood on his palm, his nose bleeding and lip split.

“I apologize, I didn’t mean –” Fenris starts, but he waves his hand dismissively.

“It’s alright. I should’ve been paying more attention to where I was going,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. The woman slides into the chair beside Anders.

“I’m staying here. This table seems fun,” she says as she takes a sip, then holds out her hand towards Anders. “I’m Isabela. Your victim’s Hawke.” Anders gives his name in return, returns the shake, still holding back laughter.

“I’m going to the bathroom to clean up,” Hawke says, shaking his head.

“I’ll come with you,” Fenris says, taking a step forward after him. Hawke regards him for a moment, a quick up and down, then nods agreement. Hawke leans against the bathroom counter while Fenris fetches toilet paper, wets them carefully. Hawke lets his hand full as Fenris examines his face, begins to carefully dab at the blood.

“My ring must have – ah – split your lip,” Fenris says, frowning at the cut. Hawke’s beard is somehow soft under his touch, and he seems more amused than upset.

“I take it you were having a good conversation then?”

“More of an argument,” Fenris mutters. Heated enough for him to stand, swing his arms wide and punch an unsuspecting Hawke in the face. Hawke chuckles under his breath, winces at the way the grin makes the split worse. The nosebleed stops, and Fenris turns the paper to get the rest of the blood out of his mustache and beard. All that remains is the cut. While Fenris throws out the soiled paper, Hawke examines himself in the mirror.

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, looking at the cut, and then at the Fenris’s reflection in the mirror. “It’s fine, really. You can stop looking so guilty. It was an accident and you already apologized,” Hawke tells him. Fenris frowns, looks away.

“Yes, well.” Hawke turns, pats his shoulder lightly like comforting a kicked puppy. “How about you tell me your name, we buy some drinks, and we can keep this story about how we met for our grandkids?” Fenris snorts laughter, covers his mouth with his hand.

“Grandkids?”

“Pardon me for saying so, but, you have a gorgeous smile,” Hawke says and underneath Fenris’s hands, his cheeks bloom shy pink.


	22. Dresses (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a friend, based on [this picture](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/171361138859)

A _nightmare_. Dresses could never be anything but terrible. Ada pulls her hair behind her shoulder, takes a moment to adjust her earring as she does. “You know I hate going to these parties,” she says. “These clothes are never comfortable.” Isabela is leaning against the table, her hands pressed together in worship as she judges her from head to toe, eyes sparkling.

“Too bad,” she says, completely without sympathy, “you look amazing.” Ada rolls her eyes, shakes her head. Smoothing out her skirts, sighing.

“Wait, wait, where’s your phone?” Isabela asks as she turns, moving shirt and purse, looking for it underneath all the discarded outfits.

“It should be there somewhere,” Ada says, peering over Isabela’s shoulder.

“Aha!” Isabela pulls it triumphantly from the pile, and she puts her hands on Ada’s shoulder. Pushing her back, then her hands lift and she smiles. “Perfect. Stay right there and look pretty.” Ada immediately straightens her back, wildly and suddenly aware that she has no idea what to do with her hands. Hearing the click of the phone as Isabela unlocks it, raising it to take a photo. “Smile!” It’s more of a grimace really. Who on earth can smile on command? Isabela snorts laughter. “I can’t wait for him to see it.”

“Isabela who are you sending it to?” Ada says as she marches forward, reaching for the phone. “Izzy!” Isabela laughs wildly as she hugs the phone to her chest, bends over. A different tactic, with Ada. With others, she could simply hold their things above her head and out of their reach. Ada, on the other hand, would have no difficulty reaching. Just when Isabela thinks she’s about to pick her up completely, the phone vibrates in her hand.

Reaching out, holding the bright screen far too close to Ada’s face. Frowning as she reaches for it, holds it at a more acceptable difference. Fenris was with Varric, Donnic and Anders – it was game night, after all. One of them must have taken the picture. She laughs brightly at the sight of it and can’t help but wonder how much they’ve been drinking. What an exaggerated faint, a stunned pose. Another message rolls in after the picture.

‘He’s mumbling about how gorgeous you are and how lucky he is.’ That’s Varric, for sure. Ada can feel the blush creep into her cheeks, the smile spreading across her face. A nightmare. Dresses could never be anything but terrible. But now, a little less awkward. A little more confident.


	23. Reuniting (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I just really miss fenris. Could you write Marian and fenris reuniting after a time apart where the really missed each other?

He holds her face in his hands. His fingers tremble on her cheeks. He holds her like glass, though he is afraid that he is the one who might shatter. The entire way to Weisshaupt, he was so terribly angry. Wrought with fury and fear all the same, a knot buried deep inside his chest, tangling against rib and lung, twisting in his belly. He had decided that he would tell her all of it when he saw her, but now she is before him and all the words die in his mouth. “Hawke,” and his voice is hoarse, her name all but ripped from him.

It’s the smile that does him in. She’s been looking at him like he can’t be real, but now she _smiles_ , the quickest upturn of her lips. Fenris immediately throws his arms around her, cradles her tight. His hand at the back of her head, pressing her close, the other splayed at her back. She holds him just as tightly, her hands fisting in his cloak. Closing her eyes, burying her face against him. He squeezes his eyes closed, savors the feeling of her in his arms once again. “I have missed you,” he tells her, and the rawness has not left his voice.

“Fenris,” she says, and it is his name, his warmth, that allows her to breathe again. Clinging to each other, unable to find the proper way to hold because close isn’t close enough. “I missed you. So much, I’ve missed you so much.” Breaking apart only just enough for Hawke to tilt her head upwards towards him. Threading her fingers through his hair, running along the shell of his ear. That familiar cut of his jaw, her thumbs brushing over his cheeks. The kiss is what home feels like.


	24. Overthinking (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: aaaaand 97. “You’re so cute when you pout like that.” fenhawke owo

She finds him still under the covers. The cheap mattress sinks under her weight, and she puts a hand on his shoulder. He’s lying on his side, facing the wall, away from her. “Bad day?” She asks softly. He can only respond by curling even more into himself, legs folded, fists bunched at his chest. Gently running her hands through his hair, little comforting movements. Closing his eyes, turning his head even more towards the pillow. She pulls the covers up over his shoulder, around him. Tucking him in, leaning over, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Get some rest. I’ll be here.”

Every bit of him feels stretched. Tense. Ready to snap. His mind is restless noise, waves that roll, destructive red and moodier blue. Weights strapped to his chest, dragging him ever down. Through this ocean heavy, he can barely hear her, feel her. Still, it’s enough. To breathe a little easier, to have that scratching at his ribs settle just barely. Sleep has been restless, but now he dreams deeply. He wakes in the evening, to find the fire roaring. Hawke, asleep in his chair. Slouched and a book resting still open on her chest.

Fenris slips from the bed carefully, lightly walks past her without disturbing her. He finds she’s not just cleaned his bathroom, but filled the tub with water as well. A rune on the side of it, keeping the water warm. Grateful, he pulls off his clothes and slips into it. It’s the perfect temperature, the one she knows he likes best. White hair drifting like long grass around him, holding his breath as he sinks underneath. Gasping as he sits up, leans against the edge. Listening to the drops of water in the silence, and behind that, the creak of floorboards. Hawke is awake.

When he leaves the bathroom, hair still damp and in fresh clothes that Hawke left on the counter for him, he finds a feast waiting. Chicken, potatoes, corn and bread. The plate is full, more than he would normally eat. Sitting across from Hawke and she’s smiling as she bites into her bread. He knows it just from a glance. She’s cleaned his entire mansion again. He knows he’ll find the kitchen spotless, sheets freshly washed. Books and papers tidied, extra food in the cupboards. The guilt twists at him. She knows it in the frown of his brows, the downturn of his lips.

She reaches across the table, fingers tapping over the knuckles of his clenched fist. Slowly unraveling him, taking his hand in hers. “You’re so cute when you pout like that.” He scoffs, snorted laughter, and shakes his head. “Don’t overthink things,” she says softly, “I wanted to do this for you.” He turns to look back at her, and she instantly smiles at his returned gaze. A squeeze of her hand, and he squeezes back. Her thumb moves in a comforting circle on the back of his hand.

“Thank you then,” he tells her, “for this.” He catches it, sometimes. The way she looks at him. The slight tilt of her head, the wider smile. Blue eyes that shine, see past him, inside him. A look of affection. Of love. The kindest reminder that she doesn’t mind his faults, accepts his flaws. He lifts her hand to his lips, kisses her knuckles.


	25. A Family, A Cure (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: A PROMPT: maybe zev/warden with a family?

This place has no name. Or, if it did, that name has been forgotten. She stands on some ruined pillar, now reclaimed by the jungle. Staring upwards through the canopy of trees, the sunlight that filters through. Arms crossed, back straight and she can hear him packing up the tent behind her. The sounds are sharper, the colors of the world dulled. She raises a hand to her cheek, where the taint has crept upwards, claimed her eye. She can still see, but, differently now. She can feel other changes in the belly of her. Faintly, she listens to the distant song she knows he can’t hear.

Noya turns, hops off the pillar. Leaves and branches underfoot, cracking under her weight. “Zev,” she says, and he immediately turns to her. He’s never mentioned it, not once. Not when her veins began to turn, not when it flowered on her chest. Not as it creeped upwards, not as her eye went from hazel to glassy grey. He’s only ever looked at her, seen her, and loved her. He smiles even now as he drops the pack, closes the distance between them. Reaching out to her, wanting to hold. She stops him with a hand on his chest. “You have to go back.”

The confusion flickers across his face, and he barks sharp laughter. “The cure is not found where we came from, _mi amore_ ,” he says. His hands land gentle on her arms. Moving up and down, some worried restlessness.

“I know. I don’t know if I’ll reach it in time. I don’t know if –” She doesn’t know if she’ll still be her. Every day the song grows louder, until she’ll have no choice but to listen. Then she will be no better than the darkspawn she’s put in the ground. She worries she’ll kill him with that monster in her mind. She returns his touch, hands squeezing on his arms. “Zevran, you have to go back. The children need you,” she tells him fiercely. She misses their faces. She forgets what they look like more and more.

She remembers holding them in her arms. The shock of Zevran when they were told it was twins. The joy at their first cry. The way he sleep with each one by his side. His girls. With Alistair and Anora now, safe and hidden under royal protection. Now, in their teens, more than ever they look like him. Sound like her. She wonders if they remember her. They’d forget her, given time. But Zevran, he – he can still be with them. Love them, protect them. Their babies. Their children. Their family. He shakes his head.

“I am not going back without you. We are finding the cure, together,” he says.

“I’m running out of time. They can’t – they can’t grow up without knowing us. Knowing their father. I can do this on my own. They can’t. Zevran, my love. My sweet, dearest, greatest love. You have to go back,” she says, reaching up.

“We were supposed to grow old together,” he softly says. There’s a pain, an ache in his voice. Some strained feeling that knows she’s right but still doesn’t want to leave. She smiles as she looks at him, holds his face in her hands. The lines around his mouth, the crows feet at his eyes. She brushes back hair behind his ears, hair now tinged grey. Leaning forward, pressing the kiss to his lips. She closes her eyes, he doesn’t move. Resting back on her feet, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.

“We already did,” she tells him.


	26. Starting Out (Zevran x F!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: OR TRYING TO START A FAMILY

She lies in the bed, hands linked over her belly, staring at the ceiling. Her body still aches. The effort of killing the archdemon has not yet left her bones. For so long she had been focused on the thing she must do, that she doesn’t know now what she can do. What she wants to do with the time she has. Knowledge of a heavy burden, a clock that ticks. She tilts her head, to where he lies on his side away from her. She rolls over, puts her hand on his shoulder. “Zev?”

“Mhmm?” A sleepy acknowledgement as he moves to face her. One eye blinks open before the other, and she smiles. He rubs at his eyes, brushes hair out of the way. “What is it amore?” Hoarse with sleep, his hand moving up her arm, and he’s planting kisses on her cheek.

“Have you ever thought about - a family?” He pulls away, and in the dark, she can see him distinctly raise an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?” She reaches out, pinching a lock of his hair, twisting it between her fingers. Looking at that, rather than at him, pursing her lips as she struggles with the words.

“Children. Did you ever want them?”

“Do _you_ want them?” He reaches up, stills her hand with his. Bringing it down, holding her tight.

“I always thought I would, one day. From what I’ve been told by Riordan, Alistair and Morrigan, I – the taint, what makes me a Grey Warden – will catch up with me. I thought I’d have time for all these things, but,” she shakes her head, looks away, squeezes his hand. He tilts his head, smiles softly.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. She lifts her head, returns his steady gaze.

“I want a family,” she says quietly, “I want to have a family with you.” A partner, children, these things were always just a fantasy to him. Crows do not take wives, husbands, or have babies. They live alone, they die alone. This is what he always thought his fate would be. Even if he wanted someone, he didn’t think they’d want him in return. Now she offers this, as she has offered so much else. Without hesitation. Wanting him. And he loves her so. The smile crashes on his lips as he surges forward, stretches out over her.

Capturing her mouth with his, the kiss that tastes like the lingering crushed mint, a hint of sleep. She breathes into it, inhaling him, her fingers threading through his hair. They brush against her cheek as her hands slip down, over the fine muscle of his back. Feeling his shoulders move as he does, as he pulls away from the kiss. He peppers her cheeks, her jaw with kisses and slips ever further. Feeling his teeth scrape against her neck, the little bites that mark her his.

His elbows lean deep into the mattress as his hand slips underneath her shirt, over her belly and upwards. Taking a breast in his hand, rolling it beneath his palm. Kissing her collarbone, her legs on either side of him, holding tight. “What are you doing?” She asks.

“Getting started on that family,” he mumbles against her skin. She laughs but doesn’t laugh for long. Not as he leans back on his knees, fingers hooked into the waistband of her pants. A barrier so easily removed. Moving from her ankles to knees, hard fingers that knead against her flesh. Bending between them, nipping at her thighs, kissing the marks he makes. The first flick of his tongue against her clit is torture. The second is liquid sweet.

Biting the knuckle of one hand, the other reaching down to slip into Zevran’s hair. Squeezing her eyes closed as he teases her, such faint touches. His tongue at her folds, running along the shell of them. Deeper still, pressing inside her but only just. He shifts, adjusts himself. One hand rests on her belly. The other lies in wait. He’s watching the way she breathes, quicker breaths, the rise and fall of her. Smiling to himself, sucking lightly at her clit. Her back arches, and the hand that was once at her mouth now tangles in the sheets. Wrapping his tongue around it, flicking at it still, and then down, to press inside of her.

A finger joins him, and he loves the way her hips roll, that subtle grind against his mouth. The rhythm starts slowly, a gentle in and out of his finger while he eats at her hungrily. She writhes under his attentions, at how he knows how to do this so well. He’s learned her, every inch of her, how best to please her. And please her he so desperately wants to, always. When he pulls away, he wipes the slick from his face with the back of his arm. Rising upwards on his knees again, enjoying the flush in her cheeks. “Noya,” he says brightly, “my Noya.” He savors the smile it brings.

She rolls, legs sliding together, raising herself on hands and knees. Looking over her shoulder at him as she slowly lowers the front of her, raising her ass to him. A perfect arch of her back, his fingers running down the line of her spine. She rolls her bottom lip under teeth as he slips a finger through wet folds, wraps a hand around the hard length of himself. She pulls the pillows underneath her, waits with bated breath. Rewarded, when she feels the tip of him press against her cunt. He grabs a tight hold of her hips, thrusts his forward, and buries himself to the hilt.

“Fuck,” the stuttered moan escapes her, turning her face to the pillow. Gasping as he slowly pulls himself out, slams back inside. Her toes curl, her feet draped over his legs. She holds the pillow tightly as he begins to move, find the rhythm, throwing his head back. Squeezing his eyes closed, feeling her tight, wet, heat accept him completely. She is a wildfire of pleasure, and his cock throbs. He wants to remain inside her, buried there just so, as far as he can go. Instead, all he can do is quicken the pace.

Flesh slaps against flesh, her breasts swinging heavy underneath her. His fingers bruise into her hips, and he is almost breathless. “ _Amore, amore, amore_ , you are so beautiful. Noya, you feel so good,” he groans. Her eyes flicker open as she looks at him as much as she can. Her gorgeous Zevran, lost in her, jaw clenched and eyes half-lidded. He’s flushed with desire, a heat unbearable, and at the sight of him she feels her cunt tighten. He feels it too, does not break the rhythm in anyway. Riding out her orgasm, the waves of her crashing against him.

“Zevran,” she says, her voice low and husky, “cum for me.” He doesn’t need to be told twice. His hips stutter, his rhythm slows, and he hunches over as he buries his seed deep inside her. Groaning with the effort of relief, the stiff line of his shoulders finally relaxing. Letting go of her hips, and collapsing into the bed beside her. They quickly tangle up in one another, leg upon leg, her head on his chest and his arms around her. In the silence, the aftermath, he kisses her forehead.

“I am glad… you chose me,” he tells her. She smiles, chuckles under her breath. Shifting, her head on his chest, looking at him.

“There’s no one else for me. Zevran. I love you,” and the tips of his ears burn bright red.


	27. Saying (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Can you do “I can’t tell you how happy I am that I don’t just love you, that I get to say I’m /in/ love /with/ you.” for Pavellan?

There’s still mud in his hair, a scrape on his chin. A cut that’s closed, blood dried on his cheek. A little dirty, a little scorched, but the instant Mahanon is off the horse, he’s running for the library. Pages flutter as he races past Solas’s desk, and he takes the stairs two by two. Dorian turns his head, cocks an eyebrow when he sees him. The book goes flying out of his hand when Mahanon crashes into him. Arms around his neck, holding tight, lifting his legs around him. All Dorian can do is hold on tight, a hand splayed at his back, the other helping support one of Mahanon’s legs.

Swaying together as Mahanon rocks in his arms, grinning face appearing before Dorian’s. “We killed a dragon!” He tells him breathlessly. Loudly enough to have Solas looking upwards, the others in the library looking at them out of the corner of their eyes. Even Leliana peers over the edge, a raven on her shoulder.

“Was that Bull’s idea?” Dorian asks him. Mahanon fiercely shakes his head.

“It was amazing. I thought I was going to die! And Dorian,” Mahanon says as he holds Dorian’s face tightly in his hands, “I love you.” Surging forward, taking him by surprise, the kiss loud and undignified.

“I wanted you to know!” There’s mud on Dorian’s cheek now. “I don’t care who knows.” Mahanon twists in Dorian’s arms, turns towards the middle of the rotunda. “Hey! I love Dormmphphh!” Dorian half drops him as he rushes them over to his usual corner nook, a hand clapped over Mahanon’s mouth. Depositing him heavy into the chair and leaning over, his hands clenched around the armrests.

“What are you doing?” Dorian hisses through clenched teeth. His heart hammers in his chest, some panic beating like wings at his back. Different here, from those soft whispers of love in bed, in private. That still gives him the chance to deny, that Dorian meant nothing to him, that he – Mahanon chuckles under his breath as he reaches up, thumbs brushing over Dorian’s cheekbones. Moving to stand, forehead against forehead.

“Dorian, I don’t want to deny this. I love you, I’m _in_ love with you. That’s not going to change,” he says.

“It could,” Dorian tells him.

“Ever the pessimist.”

“I prefer realist.” More laughter, another kiss. Mahanon pulls him close, hugs him tightly.

“I’m not going to leave you,” he murmurs against Dorian’s ear, “I love you. I love you. I love you. I’ll tell you as many times as it takes. I’ll never get tired of saying it. I love you. Dorian, you’re the man I love. Dorian, Dorian, Dorian, I love you.” Dorian closes his eyes, listens carefully to each word. 


	28. Someone Else (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: there's a possibility i might regret this but, 76. “You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.” for fenhawke?

The Fade has swallowed Hawke. The Fade has spit out something else. It looks like Hawke, but it is not Hawke. Fenris holds the sword tightly in his hands, feels the sweat bead down his back. She’s framed by the green of the rift, a crack in the air, reflecting and winding in the black of her hair, the porcelain of her skin. Hawke tilts her head back as she looks at him, licks her lips. She’s dressed like a Magister. Robes of black, veins of red. Gold rings dangle on her fingers, her staff made of the same. “I’ve missed you,” she says as she holds out her hand towards him. Hawke, not Hawke. His knuckles burn white, his sword does not falter.

He does not take her invitation, her outstretched hand. A momentary pout, before she drops it back at her side. “You’ve disappointed me, Fenris,” she says. There’s a tremor in her voice, scratching around the edges. Sounds like her, is not her. Tears roll down her cheeks. The Inquisition soldiers beside him look at him nervously, look at him for guidance. They need her incapacitated to take her back. They need her docile and tame to take the monster out of her. He had to go. He had to see her. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt her.

“Marian,” he says, takes a step forward. She cocks her head, watches him. “We’re going to go home, but I need to help you first.”

“Help?” she balks laughter, “I don’t need-”

“I’m not talking to you.” Spoken sharply, harshly. Hawke smiles, amused, but her mouth closes. Leaning easy against her staff, hand on her hip, waiting patiently. Fenris takes another step forward. “Marian,” he says again, “you need to fight it. Wake up, fight it, because I can’t do this without you.” Hawke blinks, and the tears renew. The grin cracks across her face.

“Fenris. You’re going to have to kill me,” she says. Fenris moves forward, the Inquisition moves with him. She lets the staff roll in her hands, looks at them out of boredom. “I’ll kill them first, of course.” He dashes forward quickly, swinging the sword towards her. She catches it with the palm of her hand. Close together, and he can see the green shimmering in the blue of her eyes. An infection, disease of demons. She leans forward.

“My little wolf. You think I don’t know how to chain you? I’ve always known,” she says softly, almost close enough to kiss. He goes screaming to his knees, his markings alive with magic crueler than he’s ever known. She bends him to his will, and the sword falls from his hands. Her hand closes around his throat.


	29. Someone Else, pt. 2 (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued from previous

Hawke hisses as the shield takes her by surprise, knocks her back. Roots around her ankles, burning as quickly as Merrill can grow them. Aveline helps Fenris to his feet. “What are you doing here?” He asks. She raises her eyebrows.

“You really think Varric wouldn’t write to us as well?” They’ve brought more Inquisition with them. Hawke casts a shield, one the arrows cannot pierce. Varric and Sebastian still shoot along with the others, a distraction from Isabela coming up behind. Her daggers meet Hawke’s golden staff, the jewelry on it shaking with the force of the blow. Assured that Fenris is fine, Aveline charges forward. Keeping this Hawke’s concentration scattered, her magic fractured.

Hawke sweeps forward like a shadow, but Merrill is unafraid. She’s seen worse demons. A burst of flame from Hawke’s palm, and Merrill snuffs it out into nothingness. The demon laughs, Hawke still weeps. It’s Fenris who succeeds in getting behind her, the hilt of his sword knocking against her skull. She staggers forward, wounded but not defeated. It’s Anders who does that. Weaving the spell from where she cannot see, and her eyes roll. Fenris drops the sword in favor of her, picks her up in his arms.

“The spell won’t hold it for long,” Anders tells him.

“We’d best get started,” Merrill says as she walks forward. Her friends circle her, seek to free her. Fenris holds her tightly. Once he might have said no, unwilling to face the Fade and its demons once again. Her head against his chest, tears still wet on her cheeks.

“I’m coming with you,” Fenris says. He thought he’d lost her once. He would not lose her again. Not to this.


	30. Breathe Through It (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: is it possible to fit 76, 81, 65 and 91 In one zevran warden prompt? “You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.” “We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain?” “Look at me—just breathe, okay?” “Can I hold your hand?”

There’s something about the water that’s always drawn her. Perhaps it’s a lifetime of living in forests, walking across empty plains. He remembers the first time she saw the sea. Standing on the docks of Denerim, and he thought she was simply going to throw herself in. It’s no different with the rain. He half-slips in the mud, holds her tighter. She groans at the sudden jostle, her arm slung over his shoulder. He has a hand around her wrist, his other arm around her waist. Her steps are unsteady, faltering, and he’s half-dragging her along with him.

The rain spills through a canopy of trees under hidden starlight. Soaking them with it, the unforgiving downpour. Her breathing is labored, her limbs lax but still she says, “wait. Wait.” He does as she asks, his steps stuttering to a halt. It’s an effort to raise her head. Closing her eyes, tilting her face upwards. Feeling the rain on her skin, breathing in deeply. As thunder rages, lightning strikes, he wants to scold her but cannot find the right words.

“We have to get you out of the storm, _amore_ ,” is all he can manage, softly spoken. A rivulet of rain runs over her forehead, drips off her brow. She leans against him weakly.

“As you say.” They trudge forward, Zevran looking for the cave he knows they passed earlier. It was supposed to be an easy job. Go forward, scout, and come back. They didn’t expect the darkspawn to be waiting for them. Bloodied, bruised, an arrow in her gut. The silence echoes in the cave, the soft battering of raindrops. She winces as he slowly lowers her to the ground, helps her lean against the wall. Not exactly comfortable but safe, and dry. He kneels down before her, brushing wet strands of hair out of her face.

He works quickly, fingers at the straps of her armor. His ears are flattened, and there’s a frown that won’t leave. Casting her armor to the side, and he can feel the cold beginning to set in his bones. Her teeth are chattering, her eyes starting to close. “Noya,” he says, and her ears twitch at the sound of her name. “Noya.” Repeating it as he raises a hand to her cheek. “You need to stay awake.” She nods wordlessly, soundlessly. With everything soaked, there’s no hope of starting a fire. He peels back leather, cloth, and she smirks when he rips her shirt in half and throws it away.

“Is now really the time?” Her voice is hoarse, slipping back and forth.

“Ha, ha,” Zevran says without a trace of amusement, “yes, you are so very funny.” Her skin glistens with wet, the blood seeping from the wound. She groans as he presses his hand at it, reaches for the arrowhead. His lips downturned, and the frown deepens. It cannot stay. It is foul, covered in darkspawn filth. Noya reaches out, her fingers gently tapping at the back of his gloves.

“Zevran, can I hold your hand?” He immediately removes his gloves, takes her hand in his. Raising it to his lips, pressing a kiss to each individual knuckle. He moves, straddling her, his legs on either side of hers. He leans forward, fingertips at the edge of her jaw, a thumb moving over her cheek. She tastes like copper and iron, the sweetness fading. He moves her hand to his shoulder.

“This will hurt, _amore_ ,” he warns her. “Breathe through it. Look at me.” Clenching her teeth and nodding, eyelashes fluttering but her gaze not leaving his face. The slightest squeeze at his shoulder. Surrounding the arrowhead yet again. This must be done slowly, cannot risk tearing anything else. Her breath shudders with pain, chest heaving, and the ragged cry escapes her lips. He hates every sound, every moment, every second. Yes, it must be done, but he is _hurting_ her. Reaching into one of the pockets of his belt, pulling out the vial.

The alcohol stings across her skin and her vision swims. She can see the needle and thread in his hands, a drop of rain running down his temple. She barely feels it pierce her skin. He is looking at the wound but she is looking at him. The edges of him blur, the brightness of him fades. Her hand slips from his shoulder.


	31. Losing With Grace (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “I’d destroy the world for you. I would tear it apart piece by piece all for you, and I would do it with a smile. But, on the other hand, I would strive to make the world a better place for you. I would build it up brick by brick all for you, and I would do it with a smile.” For fenhawke pretty please <3

Hawke never truly wins. Hawke loses with grace. She takes each loss harder than the last. He knows what it’s like to be trapped in a drowning undercurrent, a river of thought. The city was never hers to save, but she still shoulders the guilt. She sits on the couch by the fireplace, her legs crossed. Elbow on the armrest, chin resting in the palm of her hand. Fingertips on her cheekbones, looking into the flames. Her other hand on her thigh, fingers rolling together absentmindedly. Dying firelight flickering on her face, the darkness at her back.

She looks over, momentarily startled, when he sits down beside her. She smiles, a brief thing, flashing across her face. Hawke always knows the right thing to do, the right thing to say. Able to lift the melancholy of any she meets, earn deeper friendship with a touch. There are many reasons why people come to her for help. He isn’t quite the same. He knows how to fight for someone. To tear away their problems by the edge of his blade, the lighting of lyrium. She wouldn’t have to ask. He would do it gladly. But fighting isn’t what she wants, what she needs.

He lifts her hand from her lap, places it in his. Linking their fingers together, letting his other hand rest over hers. Thumb moving in small circles, a comforting rhythm against her skin. She has shouldered so much for him. Not just with Hadriana and Danarius but with the nightmares and the thoughts that threaten to swallow him. The lonely mornings, the hateful evenings. She has shown that he does not have to be alone. She has given him a sort of peace.

Fenris reaches out, turns her face towards his. Fingers tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheek. Brushing hair behind her ear, a ghosting touch to the nape of her neck. He will never tire of seeing that look in her eyes, the freckles like constellations on her face. The years have been unkind, but still she is so lovely, more beautiful than the night they met. He knows he will think the same ten years from now, twenty years from now. If he does not have to be alone, then neither does she. He means to show her.  

“Hawke.” He murmurs it against her lips. Savoring the kiss, the sweetness of her. The gentle bird, beaten down and brutalized. Still, she flies. He would be her wings. “I am here. Hawke.” Taking her face in his hands, holding her carefully. “Hawke, Hawke, Hawke.” Whispering her name against her skin, a kiss for each freckle on each cheek. “I love you.” Her hands at his arms, her fists winding into his tunic. Her breath soft, a quicker beating of her heart. “Hawke, I am yours and I will not leave you,” he tells her. She shifts, settles safe in his arms.


	32. Flowers (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Been thinking lately about super innocent Warden. Warden who sure would be interested in Zevran if only they would realise that he flirt with them. Warden who agree for a massage and after Zevran finish it they thank him, and just wish him Goodnight with happy smile. And Zevran, sure have a massive syndrom of blue ball, but also developed crush, that seem hopeless because no matter what he try they still stay oblivious to his advances. He's desperate almost so much to ask Alistair for a advice

“Have you tried flowers?” Zevran turns quickly, his eyes narrowing as he looks at Alistair. The warrior shrugs. “You seemed like you were having trouble. Have you tried flowers? Girls love flowers.”

“Do they now? I had no idea,” Zevran says, “and you’ve had much success with women? And flowers?” Alistair leans back, tilts his head from side to side, staring upwards as he thinks. Looking back at Zevran and giving another, fuller and heartier, shrug. Zevran scoffs, rolls his eyes, allows himself to fall backwards. That short distance off the log and to the ground, crossing his arms and giving the stars a piercing glare.

He has tried everything. Poetry, poetry! Still, nothing. He almost hates himself when he sees them the next day, pausing to pluck a few fresh flowers. It would be the same as every other gift he’s given her. A smile, a thanks, and _nothing_. He fishes them out from his bag after they finish setting up camp. Seeking her out, giving her a low bow, presenting them with a flourish.

“Oh, Zevran,” she says softly. Reaching out, her fingers brushing against his as she takes the flowers from him. Touching at the petals, a smile on her face.

“I am glad you like them. Though, they are not as lovely as you,” he says as he reaches out, wrapping a strand of her hair around his finger. She’s still looking at the flowers as he tucks it behind her ear and then… her eyes widen. Her cheeks flush sudden and vibrant red. Looking up at him, squeezing the flowers so tightly that her knuckles go white. Reaching up, covering her mouth with her hand.

“I… have to go,” she mumbles, turning sharply, walking away stilted and leaving Zevran standing alone. Impossible. _Impossible_.

That night, Zevran begrudgingly takes a seat beside Alistair. The warrior looks at him, slowly swallows the cheeks he’d filled with food. “What?” He asks.

“What else. What else do you think women love?” Zevran asks him flatly. Alistair bursts into a grin.

“Flowers worked, didn’t they?” He holds his gut as he throws back his head and laughs with all his might. Zevran holds his head in his hands.


	33. On Land (Isabela x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Kissing where one person is sitting in the others lap 

Hawke walks down the stairs without any trouble. She’s lived in the estate long enough to know each step without looking, each creak, each uneven crack. The same with where the furniture is, where the stacks of books are, and the bottles left beside the couch. She doesn’t need to look down at all. A good thing too, as Isabela was making things a little difficult. Draped over her, arms hanging off Hawke’s shoulders, hands tapping at her back. Legs wrapped tightly around her waist and Hawke is doing her best to help. A hand underneath Isabela’s thigh, the other flat against her back.

This has been an almost constant for the past three days, although Hawke doesn’t mind. “Don’t go,” Isabela says. It’s muffled by her mouth against Hawke’s neck, but somehow, she still manages to sound absolutely miserable. Hawke chuckles.

“And leave Varric to save the world all by himself? I think not,” she says.

“Take me with you,” she says, rocking back suddenly. Hawke sways, struggles to keep them both upright. Isabela’s hands squeeze on her shoulders as she looks down at her.

“You have a boat to catch,” Hawke says with a smile.

“I don’t have to.” Hawke bursts into a fit of laughter, and all that’s left to do is find a chair to sit in, make sure they both don’t go crashing to the floor. Settling back into the couch, Isabela straddling her, not sharing in the laughter.

“You’ve been on land too long, I think,” Hawke says as she smiles softly, reaches upwards. A hand at the nape of Isabela’s neck, pulling her forward. Softly accepting the kiss, Isabela’s hands cupping Hawke’s face. Opening her mouth to her, tongue touching against tongue. Breathing in sharply, shifting as close as she can. Hawke’s hand drifts down her back, ghostly touches at her spine. Isabela tastes like sea salt and sweetness, the bit of ocean she carries with her always.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Hawke tells her.

“You better,” Isabela says, pinching Hawke’s cheeks, tapping their foreheads together.


	34. Scolding (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: For the prompts, Inquisitor scolding Cullen, and Cullen loves it?

He’s startled awake by hands slapping against his desk. One eye blinks open before the other, vision still blurry as he slowly comes to. “Really, Cullen! I’ve told you a thousand times by now. You have to stop working yourself to exhaustion,” she says as she reaches over, plucks the paper stuck against his cloak. She turns it between her fingers as her other hand rests against her hip, fingers tapping angrily. “What does it say about the Inquisition when the Commander is falling asleep at his desk?”

Cullen leans back in his chair, watches as she continues to scold him. He can’t help the small smile that drifts onto his face. Settling at his lips, his glance soft as he looks at her. She’s slapping at the page, some report, says that “no paperwork is worth making yourself sick over!” Cullen settles happily, linking his hands over his belly. Lounging in the chair, crossing his legs under the desk. Her cheeks are red with frustration, the frown ever present. Maker, but he has missed this woman. He doesn’t mind being greeted with a lecture.

“And stop smiling! You’re supposed to be in trouble,” she tells him. He knows that his office is the first stop she’s made. Pushing himself up from his chair, walking around the desk. He takes off his gloves as he goes, casting them aside, closing the distance between them. “Culle-” a word halted by his hands at her face, his lips pressing against hers.

“I’ve missed you,” he says softly. She looks up at him, trying to remain somewhat authoritative and angry, but the pink in her cheeks gives it away. 

“I missed you too,” she says begrudgingly. He chuckles under his breath, kisses her again.


	35. Freedom (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Can you write a piece before zev and the warden had a relationship? Maybe them setting up camp together and bonding ? :)

They avoid the North Road. Too many eyes. Instead, they skirt around West Hill entirely. It takes them close to the cliffs, overlooking the Waking Sea. It’s there, at the very edge of these cliffs, where he finds her. Arms crossed, wrapped around herself. The wind travels from sea, to rock, to sky, and her hair swirls about her face. A dark cloud, a veil, a spot, a stain, against a greying sky. The storm gathers in the distance and she stands to face it.

Bitterly cold, standing beside her. The mist doesn’t spare them even here, and the wind drives it home. Seeping under armor and flesh, frozen against the bone. She tilts her head only slightly, the smallest acknowledgement of his presence. “I love the sea,” she says. It’s unprompted, unasked, and he blinks in surprise. Noya has never been one to offer information so. The goosebumps prickle on Zevran’s skin, drops of water on his face.

She closes her eyes, breathes deeply. “I was raised in forests. Travelled across plains. You always knew where you stood, there. Solid. Against the sea – it’s wild. Endless. Untamed. There’s something exciting about not knowing what could happen,” she tells him. Opening her eyes, turning towards him. The _vallaslin_ curls over her forehead, points like an arrow down her nose. It separates eyes as grey as the sky, her own swirling storm clouds. She reaches out, her fingers tapping his chin. “Like you.” The touch slips away as quickly as it had come.

She turns, begins to walk back to camp. Wading through long grass, rolling waves of green. Zevran touches his chin briefly, looks at her back. He’s beginning to understand where she stands. He chases after her, his hands clasped behind his back, leaning forward with a grin. “You find me exciting?” She chuckles under her breath.

“I’m glad you left the Crows,” she says, “you should always be free. Untamed.” She says it so casually, as if she doesn’t realize what it means to him to hear the words. When the storm comes, it comes with the clap of thunder. The howl of wind, merciless of drops of rain. He lies in his lonely tent, stares at the canvas. Raising his hands in the air. The crack of lightning, illuminating the camp. They’re fading now. The rope burns around his wrists. The scars on his back. Even under this momentary light, he can still see them as though they’re fresh.

Free. She tells him he’s meant to be free. So used to looking behind, he wonders what it means to look forward. What he will do when the Archdemon is dead. In the morning, she is trying to start a fire. Down on her hands and knees, placing the logs she kept protected in her tent. Sky blue, not a cloud to be seen. She looks up at him as he walks towards her. “How did you sleep?” She asks. He kneels down beside her. He wants to ask her everything – all the questions clouding in his mind. Mostly, what it means to be free. If, _if_ , he asked, would she let him leave? He thinks she would. He doesn’t ask.

“Deeply,” is all he says.


	36. Rambling (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Warden x zevran number17 "a kiss to stop them from rambling."

“Do you mind if I tell you that you are beautiful?” The smiles spreads across his face. She raises an eyebrow, the smile only barely twitching at the edge of her lips. The flirtations have been mild, easy. Something easily brushed off. He asks permission to continue, to go further. It’s that, more than anything else, which makes her smile.

“Only if I get to tell you the same,” she says. Zevran’s eyebrows rise. He links his hands behind his back, leans closer towards her. Mahariel crosses her arms, leans back slightly just out of his reach. He straightens, begins to circle her.

“Tell me that I am beautiful?”

“Yes,” she says. He halts to a screeching stop right in front of her.

“I am, am I not?” He says it with a proud tilt of his head towards the sky, a hand pressed against his chest. A proud peacock. Her hand settles on his shoulder as she shakes with laughter. She bursts with it and he reaches out, holds her steady. He didn’t think it was _that_ funny. He doesn’t realize that it’s more than what he said. It’s relief. Allowing herself to feel safe with him. Allowing herself to find some humor in the midst of a Blight. She’s been holding herself so tightly, a wound knot, and it’s here, with him, that she allows herself to unwind.  

“Really, my Warden, I have had better moments. I _will_ have better moments. Unless your sense of humor is simply just strange, then perhaps I should –” Her hand still on his shoulder, the other reaches for his face. Leaning forward, the quickest brush of her lips against his.

“Thank you, Zevran. For the laughter,” she says. She’s still chuckling to herself as she begins to walk back to camp. Leaving him standing there, slowly reaching upwards. Fingertips against his lips, the smile returning to his face.


	37. Softer (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: If you’re taking prompts, could you maybe write something about fenris’ hair? Even the way it’s animated in the clunky da2 style makes it look sooooooo silky soft.

His fingertips move lightly soft, trailing gently. Under the fading sunlight, he can see each ghosting hair on her arm, every freckle, every scar. Utterly quiet but for their breathing. Her hands tremble on his back. Strands of her hair sweep around her neck, curl at her collarbone. Closing his eyes as he moves closer, his mouth on her skin, at her chest. Fingertips over her shoulder blade, moving bump by bump down her spine. Tightly pressed together, no space wasted, bodies wound together.

Lying side by side, an arm underneath his neck. Hawke’s leg over his, hip against hip. Their movements are unhurried, his thrusts calmly slow. Savoring the tender hitch of her breath, the delicate exhale. Her other hand is moving up his back, the other already threading through his hair. From where they lay, she can kiss the crown of his head. Over and over again, and Fenris is tracing the curve of her, over rib and thigh, holding her leg tightly.

He’s so warm. She treasures these lazy afternoons. Moments spent in each other’s company, moments spent holding each other. She twists a lock of his hair underneath her fingers. His hair smells like her soap. Evidence of his willingness to stay longer and longer, nights spent uninterrupted. The days as well. The weeks, soon enough. Another kiss, just there, the crossroads of his hair. Tucking stray pieces behind a pointed ear, smoothing it away from his face.


	38. Rose of Orlais (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: @Sokemis on AO3: I was hoping I could leave a prompt: Zevran x F!Tabris - fun/fluff, no smut (I can't believe I just left a prompt for Zev and qualified it with no smut >.<) But I got "The Talk" from Wynne. You know, the one where she basically accuses you and Zev of keeping the whole camp awake having too loud sex every night? Thing that confused me and my poor warden was that, although they were in a relationship, she and Zev hadn't actually had sex yet. (Although I do like to headcanon that they were sharing a tent more nights than not at that point, and I'll admit that their nights may not have always been completely innocent.) But it got me to wondering: just what kind of late-night, non-sexual, shenanigans were those two getting up to in their tent that was keeping everyone else awake?

Her head touches against his, struggling to share the small pillow although his arm rests under her neck. That hand plays lazily with a strand of her hair, while the other is occupied with more important things. He holds the book open, reading by the soft glow of fading candlelight. “Oh, my Garren, you’ve returned to me,” Zevran coos, much to her delight. Tabris has her hands linked over her belly, but one moves to press against her mouth, stifling the laughter. It had taken them all day to find a time when Wynne had left her bag unattended. In the end, it was Zevran who succeeded stealing _The Rose of Orlais_.

“My nights have been long with longing of you, my chevalier,” Zevran continues in an exaggerated Orlesian accent, fluttering his eyelashes and pretending to be the blushing Lady he’s reading. Unable to hold it back any longer, the laughter peals forth, spilling through her fingers. In the end she simply has to hold herself as she shakes helplessly, curling up against him.

“Oh _mon amour_ ,” he says in a deep, gravelly voice, “I have ridden hard to get to you.” Zevran snorts laughter.

“He will be the one ridden hard next, yes?” He says in his normal voice. Tabris reaches over, lightly slaps his chest as Zevran grins with pride. “Come now,” fully invested back into the book, “embrace me my lady.” With a flick of his wrist, Zevran throws the book to the side as he rolls over on top of Tabris. Straddling her, his hands at her waist.

“Embrace me, embrace me,” he repeats over and over again as she struggles to get free, her legs stamping against the ground, as he mercilessly tickles her. She screams laughter, pounds at his back as his assault continues, and he is laughing at her ear. “Embrace me!”

“Zevran!”

“My Warden!”


	39. Green and Red (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: ok prompt time: marian buys a vibrator, fenris gets upset

> _Hello and welcome to my TED talk. Don’t let anyone tell you buying a vibrator/toy is a bad thing. There are many different kinds, make sure you do your research to find which one fits the best for you. A lot of women don’t have vaginal orgasms, but can easily have clitorial orgasms and vice versa. Or no orgasms at all – and that’s okay. It’s not a ‘must’. Some women have certain struggles, like vaginismus, which makes penetrative sex painful or not feasible at all. Some have a much high libido than their partner – everyone is different. The point is, there is nothing ever shameful or wrong about buying yourself something to have fun with your own body. Masturbation is healthy – and you can even do it with your partner! Get your partner involved in researching toys and what’s best for you both. And if your partner is angry for buying a toy or buys into the ‘not enough’ or ‘replaced’ mentality, then try and explain it. If they don’t get it, then they’re not mature enough for an adult relationship and feel free to drop them like a sack of potatoes._
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

“Look, it has twelve different tempos and nine speeds,” she says as soon as he walks in the door. Eyebrows rising as he wipes off his boots on the mat before shrugging them off. There’s a bag in his hand, a box in hers. She’s holding it about two inches away from his face, pointing at words that are only just a blur to him. “This is going to be great, and we should try it as soon as possible.” Only now does he see her, as she hugs the box to her chest, beaming brightly at him. Her smile falters as she sees the expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?” He sighs as he reaches into the bag, pulls out a box of his own.

“It’s non-refundable,” Fenris says as he passes it to her. She holds the two boxes side by side. Exactly the same type of vibrator, just in different colors. She throws back her head and laughs. “I wanted to surprise you.” A barely discernable pout at his lips and Hawke surges forward to kiss him.

“You beautiful buffoon, now there’s one for both of us,” she tells him, “I’m keeping yours. How did you find a red one? The place I went to was all out of that color. I had to get green.” Fenris sticks out his tongue.

“Green. Blech,” he says as he follows her inside.


	40. Darvaarad (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: eyyy bb, 53 for pavellan maybe?? 

It almost feels like one of the older lessons. Standing over a fresh corpse, feeling every bone, bit of flesh, muscle. Weaving the magic like sinew, the strings of a puppet. Except this isn’t a lesson. Dorian runs his fingers of Mahanon’s arm, and he grits his teeth underneath the touch. Whatever the anchor is, whatever magic poisons him, it fights against Dorian’s ministrations. A healer might suit this better, but they all know what a healer would say. The anchor sparks, beats with a pulse, constantly angry, active, eating him alive. Dorian seeps his own magic inside, trying to bring life back into dead tissue. The anchor flares, and Mahanon puts his other hand on Dorian’s shoulder. 

“That’s enough,” he says.

“This won’t hold it for long,” Dorian tells him. Slowly standing up from where he had been kneeling, moving to sit on the bed beside him. Taking Mahanon’s hand in his, raising it to his lips, brushing a kiss against his knuckles. Holding it tightly still, resting on his lap, thumb moving in worried circles. Mahanon closes his eyes, puts his head on Dorian’s shoulder.

“I won’t need much longer,” he says quietly. “After the Darvaarad, it’ll be finished. Then you can all stop looking at me so disapprovingly and chop of my arm.” A mirthless chuckle under his breath, and Dorian can feel his hand tremble. How many little wooden halla line Dorian’s desk now? All made by Mahanon’s hands. He’s always taken pride in his work. Crafting bows for even the lowest ranking Inquisition soldier, fletching his own arrows. He’ll need to re-learn how to fight. How he wants to fight. In the meantime, he’ll be defenseless.

There’s a chain around Mahanon’s neck, the sending crystal hidden underneath his shirt. Dorian’s shoulders sink as he hunches over, raises Mahanon’s hand again. Pressing kiss after kiss, and how could he think of leaving him? With calls for the Inquisition to be disbanded, the others needing to go their own way… he’ll be alone. “Dorian,” Mahanon says, raising his head, his mouth against Dorian’s shoulder. “Have I ever told you how handsome I think you are?” Dorian looks at him miserably, his lips downturned. Mahanon smiles softly.

“You realize I’m flirting with you, right? You’re supposed to be happy,” Mahanon says as he leans forward. He keeps his hand, shaking with the anchors fade, behind him. With his other, he links their fingers together as he kisses him. Working Dorian into the kiss until it’s returned properly. They need to leave soon, but Mahanon doesn’t want to think about that. Not yet.


	41. Empty (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Ooh. How about #2 "I trusted you." Fenhawke? I just know you'll smush my heart into a million pieces but it'll still be amazing.

The Exalted March comes sooner than they expect. There is no army to stop them, no one to stand in their way. Aveline sits at her ruined desk in the Keep, rubble and ash underneath her feet. Chantry soldiers mill around her, looking for anything relevant to take. Sebastian watches as they walk the crater where the Chantry once stood, the broken half of Hightown. Merrill pulls up her hood as she descends down the tunnels in Darktown, avoids the ones who swarm into an empty clinic. The rest wait in Lowtown. In the Hanged Man, around the table they once called theirs. Varric and Isabela exchange a glance at the sound of clanking armor. Fenris has his eyes closed, arms crossed.

“Tell us where the mage Anders is,” one asks.

“Dead,” Varric says.

“Where is the Champion?”

“Gone,” Fenris tells them.

“Take them.” Hauling them up from their chairs, dragging them out of the tavern. Isabela actively fights it, trying to yank herself away. Varric accepts it, allowing himself to be lead. Fenris clenches his hands into fists as they wrap the chains around him. Farther away from the city, Hawke puts her hand against a tree. Leaning over, heaving sick onto the ground. Anders waits for her only a moment, then turns away, continues to walk away from the city. Hawke wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She had argued to stay. In the end, it was a quiet word from Fenris, a promise made, which made her give in. Her gut still churns with guilt, fights her with every step. All she wants to do is go back.

The March leaves as quickly as it had come. Satisfied that they will not find their prey in Kirkwall, given no answers from the ones they had taken. Aveline stands in the rubble of the Hawke estate. Taken by the debris from the explosion, fire taking whatever remained. All Hawke had worked for, gained, had been taken in an instant. She kneels down in the ash, pulls free a book. Opening crisp pages, finding notes written on the pages. Hawke’s neat script, small explanations for different words. In some of the margins, things are written in a different hand. Fenris’s. Asking questions, struggling with letters. Aveline closes the book, holds it tightly against her chest. She makes no sound, squeezing her eyes closed.

They meet up in a safe house, near the edges of the city. Surrounded by people they can trust, citizens who bear the Champion no ill will. No whispers of their arrival will find their way back to the Chantry. Hawke hugs Isabela tightly, the first one she sees when she steps through the door. Isabela returns the hug slowly, smiles softly. Dark circles under her eyes, and Hawke’s hands tremble when she sees the marks on her arms. “I shouldn’t have left,” Hawke says, that sick rising in her throat again. The churning of guilt, the ache in her bones. Isabela shakes her head.

“They would have done something worse to you,” she says. “Hawke, I – I’m so sorry.” Still half wrapped up in the embrace, and Hawke is looking around the room. Varric, with his head in his hands. Sebastian, silent in the corner. Aveline slowly passes the book to Hawke. For a moment, Hawke thinks she might speak. Then, she purses her lips, shakes her head, and turns away.

“Where’s Fenris?” Hawke asks slowly.

“He fought,” Varric says. In the emptiness of the house, his words softly echo. “I don’t know why he fought. He did that – thing – he does. They thought he was some kind of mage. Or abomination.” In her hands, the book shakes. Moving away from the rest, brushing aside the curtain which separates the rooms. Hawke puts the book on the table. He sits neatly, his hands clasped on his lap, his head bowed. Beside him, the candle flickers. She is slow to kneel in from of him. Putting her hands over his, finding them cold.

“Fenris?” Her voice sounds so small. She reaches upwards with a reluctant hand, brushes back the bangs. Her thumb traces over the brand, the sunburst between three dull dots. His lyrium lifeless, the rest of him much of the same. “Fenris, it’s me.” Whispered quiet as her hands tremble on his face. Lifting his head to look at him, seeing no recognition in his eyes.

“It’s like he’s – empty,” Varric’s voice behind her, but she cannot look away from her lover. Still kneeling but rising upwards, enough to press her forehead against his. Holding his face tightly, the tears dripping down hers.

“Fenris it’s me,” she says, “you promised – you said everything would be fine. I trusted -,” her voice cracks, breaks, falls into nothing. She cannot settle. Hands fisting at his tunic, wrapping around him. Pulling him down with her, holding him in her arms. His head against her chest, and he doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t move to return the embrace. She tucks hair behind his ears. She’s always loved his hair. So light and soft, and once it smelled like her shampoo.

“It’s me, I’m home, I’m here,” Hawke is saying over and over again, tasting salt on her lips as she rocks back and forth. Folding herself over him completely, holding him tightly. “Come back to me, you promised.” On the table, the candle flickers. The wax burns low, the wick ends. And in the dark, she still holds him.


	42. How Much I (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Prompt list request for the writing master: #7 “I hate how much I love you” for MHawke and Fenris. :)

Mesmerizing, to watch him. The way he moves, makes violence a dance. Footsteps light, the swing heavy. Staff meets sword, and the magic in him pushes the bandit away. Rolling the staff against the ground, flames spewing in its wake. He moves like water, allows the magic to roll off of him. No other mage Fenris has seen fights like this. In Tevinter, the magisters always sent others to fight for them. Never do they expend more energy than is necessary. Magic for the sake of magic. Mechanical movements, staff heavy and ornate. Power for the sake of power. In this, as in so many other things, Hawke is different.

It worries Fenris, sometimes, to have Hawke in the fray with all the others. Hawke would never allow others to fight for him, to be hurt, while he stands in the back. He is more than capable of holding his own, fearsome but Fenris doesn’t fear him. When the battle is over, Hawke makes his way towards him. Putting a heavy hand on his shoulder asking, “Are you alright?”

“I am not injured. And you?” Fenris says.

“I’m fine.” Hawke smiles and for a moment, Fenris thinks he might say more. A wistful way, how Hawke looks at him. It makes him ache, just there. In Hawke’s eyes, someone reaches inside Fenris’s chest, squeezes his heart tightly. Fenris hopes he will say more. Instead, Hawke simply squeezes his shoulder, pats it twice, then turns away. It is the same but not the same, since that night. Fenris studies Hawke’s back. The broad lines of him, the shoulders that stay strong despite the burdens he carries. Fenris regrets that he is another.

He thinks it would be easier if Hawke would simply hate him. Or if Fenris could hate him in return. Instead, Fenris only hates how much he loves him. Another flaw, adding to all the others. The ones that make him unworthy of Hawke’s affections. Of how Hawke looks at him. Fenris closes his eyes, breathes out deeply. He means to make himself better. One day soon, it will be better. Opening his eyes, taking quick steps to catch up with the others.


	43. Green and Red, pt 2 (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: How about a followup to that vibrator prompt? ;)  
> [Link to previous](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13636923/chapters/32494506)

She bites her bottom lip, tilts her head to the left. That stubborn stray strand of hair tickles across her brow as her hands fist into the edges of the pillow. Eyes squeezed closed, face flushed a delicate pink. That blush seeps into her chest, blooms with each rise and fall of heavy breath. The heel of her foot presses into the bed, pushes back the already pushed covers. The other rests carefully on his back, and he can feel each tremble of her leg. Holding her hips tightly as her back arches, as she gasps, eyes snapping open. A hand leaving the pillow, reaching for his head between her thighs.

“Fen,” she says on the exhale, her fingers threading through his hair. His only reply is a gentle squeeze of her hips, the tender circling of his thumb against her skin. Gently still, his tongue at her clit. Circling it carefully, sucking at it slowly, and tracing the letters of his name against her cunt. “Please, I can’t –” He loves the way she says it. Words broken, strangled from her. She shudders, shivers, with pleasure, and his eyes open briefly to watch the way her breasts move with her. As he moves to his knees, he keeps a hand over her cunt, uses the other to wipe at the wet around his mouth.

He uses the flat of his palm to massage against her clit, his fingers gently pressing inside of her. “Are you ready?” He asks. Hawke is biting her bottom lip again, and can only nod. Crossing her arms over her face, her feet planted on either side of him. A lovely view. From red cheeks to plump lips, the freckles on her chest and scar across her belly. He adores every curve, every mark, and the stretch marks on her thighs, the birthmark on her shoulder. He leans down, plants a kiss just above her belly button. Then, he reaches for it.

Red, her favorite color. U-shaped, one side larger than the other – the side meant to sit against her clit. The other part fits inside her cunt. He eases it in slowly, watching for any sign of discomfort. “Good?” He asks.

“Yes,” she says, finally moving her arms so he can see her eyes. Giving her a reassuring smile as he reaches for the second part, the one which controls the vibrator. Starting at the lowest, raising the tempo slowly. Watching as her hands clench in the sheets, as her legs begin to move restlessly. “There.” It hums softly, and Fenris runs a hand from thigh to hip, upwards still, rolling her breast under his palm as he stretches out over her. Capturing her lips for the kiss, and she can taste herself still on his tongue.

Putting a hand against his chest, moving him back as she shifts herself. On hands and knees, bunching the pillow underneath her chest. Looking over her shoulder at him, her elbows pressed into the mattress. Fenris runs his hand along her back, along the curves of her. He takes himself in hand, wrapping around the bottom of his cock, and aligning the tip against her entrance. He can feel the vibrator against him, slick with her wet. He is content to rub himself against her, wetting the underside of his cock, feeling the pleasurable rumble against him.

Hawke squirms, her feet linking over his legs. She wiggles her ass impatiently, bucks against him. “Fen, please,” she says. He pushes himself into her slowly, the tight wet of her cunt, and she groans with the feeling. Full of him, and the added intensity of the vibrator is almost enough to push her over the edge. His hands roll heavy over her ass, grab tight at her hips. He breathes out slowly as he buries himself inside her to the hilt. Cock twitching with the same vibrations she feels. Feels so _good_. A struggle, to go slowly.

“Hawke,” he says, low and husky, his eyes closing as he breathes. He can feel her toes curl as he begins to move, finds the rhythm that suits them both best. His hands constantly moving, down her back and against her hip. Against her ass, her thighs. Reassurance of him at her back, and she squeezes the pillow tightly. Flesh slaps against flesh as he thrusts deep and hard, savoring every moan drawn from her. “Hawke, Hawke, Hawke.” Leaning over, one hand against the bed, as he peppers her shoulders and back with kisses.

“Fen,” she breathes. A pause in the rhythm as she moves, careful not to have him move out of her. Lying on her back, hair splayed on the pillow, and she opens her arms to him. He takes her offer gladly, moving his arms underneath her, his hands at her shoulders. Kissing her neck as he lets his head rest on the pillow beside hers, her thighs squeezing against his hips, her legs linked behind his back. Her fingers thread through his hair as the heel of her foot presses against his ass. Trailing fingertips over his shoulders and shoulder blades, feeling the muscles of him move as they rut together.

She gasps against him, her hands trembling. Arching her back, head tipped back. He takes advantage of her exposed throat, marks her his. Not changing his thrusts, keeping the tempo, riding out the orgasm with her. Feeling her tighten around his cock, wave after wave, her body tight with the orgasm, relief with the release. He follows soon after her, a low grunt against her collarbone as he spills his seed inside of her. Allowing himself to fall against her gently, his head on her chest and her arms still around him. Without looking, he reaches for the remote, slowly turns off the vibrator.

“I would say that was a success,” she says softly.

“Yes,” he says, moving upwards to kiss her again, “I would like to do that again soon.” He smiles at her, utterly blissful, and she chuckles softly under her breath, delighted to see him like this.


	44. Jealousy (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you please do #3 “I’m not jealous” for fenris and hawke?

He wakes with dog hair in his mouth. He sputters as he half sits up, still hazy with sleep, pulling it off his tongue. Nestled between them, is Mr. Barks, on his back and his paws in the air, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he softly snores. Wedged at the very edge of the bed is Hawke, on her side, still asleep. Fenris frowns as he realizes what little space he has on the bed as well. The fur is embedded in everything, everywhere. He tosses and turns, struggles to return to sleep.

Once they wake in morning proper and Hawke takes Barks for a walk, Fenris gets right to work. He strips the bed with Bodahn’s help, scrubs the fur out of the sheets. Picking each individual hair out of the mattress, beating it out of the pillows. He makes the bed neatly, closes the door behind him. Once it comes time for bed, he crosses his arms, takes a stance. “The dog is not allowed on the bed,” he tells them. Hawke is kneeling on the floor, her arms wrapped around Barks. She looks up at him, slowly begins to pout.

“No. His fur is infernal. I also wish to – I wish to sleep with you, without a dog between us,” Fenris admits. Hawke breaks into a grin.

“You want to cuddle,” she says slyly.

“I didn’t say –” She’s holding Barks’s face in her hands, her nose pressed against his.

“Sorry buddy, you’re not allowed on the bed. Fenris wants to cuddle,” she tells the dog. Tilting his head, ears lopping to one side as he gives a low whine. “Nope, sorry, it’s the floor for you.” Actually, it’s the bed in the corner – the dog bed they bought for him, never used. That night, Hawke curls up to Fenris happily, her arms wrapped around him, legs entwined together. Fenris smiles contently with her in his arms. For so many nights, it’s wondrous. Able to sleep beside her, with nothing separating them.

Then, one night, Fenris goes to bed last.

Barks is waiting on the bed for him. Hawke is sleeping on her side, but Barks is in the middle of the bed, facing the door. Laying down attentively beside her, his head raised and paws crossed. The moment Fenris opens the door, it’s like the dog _laughs_. Panting happily, tongue hanging out of his mouth. “Off,” Fenris whispers authoritatively through clenched teeth, not wanting to wake Hawke. Barks only leans against her even more, resting his head on Hawke’s hip. The dog looks over at him, as if to ask ‘ _jealous_?’

“I am not jealous,” Fenris says, crossing his arms, “get off the bed.” Rolling in place, on his back, paws in the air. They stare at each other for a few long moments, before Fenris scoffs under his breath.

“Only for tonight,” he says as he climbs into the bed. Barks rolls back over, adjusting himself to lie with his head beside theirs. Looking at Fenris who still has his arms crossed, staring at the ceiling. That is until a wet tongue makes its way across his cheek.


	45. Choices (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 45 for M!Fenhawke please “The worst part is, I loved you anyway.”

He has found that the longer he looked into the fade, the more it stared back. The softest touches at the very core, the whispering words around the edges. He always thought he would know when to look away. When the time comes, however, Hawke balances the edge of the blade against his wrist. A slash, the quickest but not the most careless of cuts. Hawke looks into the abyss, tells what stares back, “yes.” Whatever it needs just, “save him.” His heart beats someone else’s blood into his veins, a power not his own, and Hawke struggles to remember who he is. Veins in him, veins outside of him, and in an instant the bandits drop dead around them.

Such a narrow line to walk, that place between blood mage and abomination.

Hawke believes that were Fenris awake, he would not allow it. He would curse and turn away, deny it, deny it, deny it, even at the cost of his own life. But Fenris is not awake. Hawke is already kneeling down with him, Fenris cradled in his arms. Head lolling lifelessly against his chest, hand limp against the ground. Hawke holds him tightly as he presses his hand over that wound in his belly, the cruelest red. He’s never been good at healing, but this, this is almost too easy. Flesh stitching itself back together, organs in their proper place. Shallow breathing growing stronger, the color returning to Fenris’s cheeks.

He wakes in someone else’s bed, in a place he doesn’t know. Sunlight streaming through the windows, softly flickering across him. Fenris opens his eyes slowly, immediately wants to be sick. There’s always some remnant. He’s never forgotten what it feels like. Cold in his spine, needles prickling inside of him. Fenris rolls over in the bed, sees Hawke sitting in the chair. Elbow on the table, hand over his mouth, looking at some spot on the wall without really seeing. In casual clothing, but for the bracer around his wrist. Fenris’s hands fist into the bedsheets.

In another time, the anger would have engulfed him. Those late nights spent talking to Hawke in a hushed voice, speaking into the past all the things that have been done. The magic inflicted on his body. The distrust of it all, the hatred for blood mages and magisters. A hate he would never leave behind. But this is Hawke, and he – and he loves Hawke. That’s the worst part of it, he thinks, loving Hawke in despite of what he’s done. In another time, he would not have allowed himself to take a deep breath, to close his eyes. It would have been a decision that did not come lightly. Opening his eyes again, seeing the dark circles under Hawke’s. He must not have slept. Agonizing over his choice, still.

Fenris slowly slips from the bed. Softly, at Hawke’s back. Leaning over as he wraps arms around him. Hawke closes his eyes, lets his fingertips touch gently at his arm. The hold on him grows ever tighter as Hawke bows his head, lets his shoulders fall. “I’m sorry,” voice hoarse from lack of sleep, lack of use, the choked catch behind it. “Fenris, I’m so sorry.” Fenris closes his eyes, holds him a little tighter.


	46. S'okay (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 33. “I’m not going to stop poking you until you give me some attention.” mahariel/alistair pls bb i need

The dream lingers. The terror of being in the Deep Roads, darker than anywhere she’d ever been, but for the light of the Archdemon’s flames. Speaking words she can’t understand, crushed under its claws. The terror stays with her as her eyes snap open, heart hammering in her chest. Staring at the ceiling of the tent, listening to crickets chirp in the distance. The snore is much closer. Lying on his side, his back towards her. She turns, curls against him, listens to him breathe. He exudes warmth, but it isn’t quite enough.

Her fingertips ghost over his arm, the curve of his ribs. Palm against his hips, sliding over, against his belly. Mouth at his shoulder, teeth nipping gently. Her hair falls, dangles against him, and his snoring hitches, continues. Creeping closer, propping herself up on an elbow, pressing a kiss to his cheek. The softest hair by his naval, the harder strength underneath. She doesn’t know how he could sleep through the dreams. She presses at his belly a little harder, again and again. “Alistair,” she murmurs. Nothing.

Frowning, until finally she lines up her hand at his side. All it takes is a simple tickle before he snorts awake, turning over in place. Lying on his back, one eye blinking open before the other, looking up at her in confusion. “Mahariel? What is it?” She moves his arm down against her pillow, nestles into the space she creates. Her head by the crook of his neck, throwing her leg over his. He accepts her without question, pulling her in closer, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head as he closes his eyes again.

“S’okay. Whatever it is. S’okay,” he mumbles, murmurs, just before he drifts back to sleep right away. She chuckles quick laughter under her breath, hand resting on his chest. Feeling the rise and fall of even breathing, the soft twitches of dreaming sleep. Safer here, in his arms. She dreams of nothing.


	47. Wolves (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I have a mighty need for some protective Fenris and sick Hawke! Also have I told you lately you're amazing? ❤❤❤

With the snow comes the silence. There’s a warning on the edge of it, the howl of the wind, and in the darkness of the forest Fenris pretends he cannot see the wolves that slink between the trees. He holds Hawke in his arms a little tighter, trudges ever forward. A snowflake falls, melts on her cheek. Sleeping fitfully as he carries her, breath labored and wheezing, flush with the sickness that burns her from the inside out.

When he settles her inside the cave, he surrounds her with the blankets from their packs. He lets his gauntlets fall, puts his hands on Hawke’s face. She is hot to the touch, and yet she still shivers from cold. Kneeling beside her, leaning over, pressing his forehead against hers. Closing his eyes, listening to her breathe. He should have insisted they stay at the inn. She had said it was only a cough. His fingers curl at her cheeks. He smooths the hair away from her face, tucks it behind her ears. Making sure she is comfortable before he moves.

Standing at the mouth of the cave, the sword in his hands. They would need wood for a fire, but he is loath to leave her. Looking over his shoulder, and there are very few times he’s ever known Hawke to be vulnerable. He can count them on one hand. His frown deepens, studying her from under dark lashes. He plants the sword into the snow at the very entrance. It stands straight, metal gleaming. It stands as a warning.

He returns, his arms full, finds her sleeping safely. Inside the cave, the wind screams sharply. The snow like a curtain, the window darkly. His breath fogs in the air, his fingertips red with cold. He builds the fire quickly. He moves her as close to the fire as he can, takes her into his arms. Her head on his shoulder, her body limp in his arms. The hardest inhale, the softest exhale. His hands squeeze into the blankets. “Hawke,” he says. She doesn’t open her eyes. He holds her closer still.

Looking up, away from her, and in the distance, other eyes watch them. One of their prey is weak, the other burdened. Fenris sets down Hawke gently, carefully. Rising to his feet, wrapping his hand around the sword. Intruders in their territory but Fenris will not apologize. The pack surrounds the cave and Fenris plants his feet, readies for the fight. With the snow comes the silence, and in that silence, they stare each other down.


	48. Attracted (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you maybe write something with zev talking about being bi to the warden? I feel like origins didn’t have enough dialogue surrounding that part of him, especially if the warden was female

A silly tear, and she doesn’t know how to sew. She would have asked Wynne, but it always seemed Alistair went to her with enough clothes to fix. Instead, she goes to the only other one she can ask. Zevran sits in the tent eagle spread, and she sits opposite him, her legs over his. In between them, her shirt. In his hands, the needle, while she holds the spool of thread for him. A stray strand of hair escapes from behind his ears, drifts against his cheek. Brows furrowed in concentration, biting his bottom lip. The tiniest links, and she knows that his stitching will hold better than any other.

She reaches out with her free hand, pinching that strand of hair between her fingers, before putting it back in its proper place. He’s rolled up his sleeves, forearms exposed, and fingers moving precisely with their delicate work. As if sensing her glance, Zevran smiles. “Careful Warden, you might fall in love with me yet,” he tells her. She laughs, and with the hand not holding the thread, she reaches up to touch the earring.

“You know I’m just with you because you’re attractive,” she teases.

“Oh I am aware,” he says. “And you find many men attractive?”

“’Men’? Not women?” Needle slipping in, thread following, and back out again.

“Oh? You fancy women as well?”

“I’ve found women attractive, I’ve just never been _attracted_ ,” she says.

“Perhaps you have simply not yet found the right woman,” he says as he looks up just enough to give her a small wink. She snorts laughter, shakes her head.

“That’s always possible,” she says, “and what if you find a man you think is more attractive than me?”

“Impossible,” he says. “My Warden is the only one for me. All else pales in comparison.” Putting the thread down, resting her hand over his. Using her other hand to tip his chin upwards, to capture his mouth with a kiss.

“Sweet talker,” she murmurs as he licks his lips.

“Only for you, _amor_.” Putting aside the shirt as she shifts closer, legs wrapping around each other. She rests her head on his shoulder, closes her eyes as his hands drift over her back. Finding the edge of her shirt, slipping underneath. His palms are warm against her skin, soft and comforting circles.

“Is it different? Being with a man, I mean,” she asks. Tilting his head as he thinks for a moment.

“It is different between each person. No one loves quite the same. Other than that, no – it is not so different,” he says. “Affection is affection. Attraction is attraction. You never can help the way you feel.” 


	49. Cool (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Omg the kissing prompt 13 and 14 for fenhawke "A kiss drunk, a kiss to suprise/confuse them."

They’d finally found the time to get together. Schedules lining up, work commitments fading away. No need for a designated driver. Surrounded by trusted friends, Fenris finally feels comfortable allowing himself to drink more than usual. It’s Varric’s fault, really. His last novel sold fantastically and – and well, it just felt appropriate to buy some of the most expensive wine he could find. Hawke and Isabela lean up against the counter, bottles of beer in their hands, quietly drinking as they watch the scene unfold.

Anders and Fenris both entirely far too drunk, sharing the mic from Band Hero, belting out the song lyrics together. Merrill is beaming delight as she taps away at the drums, while Aveline has her tongue between her teeth as she focuses on hitting all the guitar notes. “This is amazing,” Isabela says.

“I know,” Hawke says. Even side by side, talking normally, they can barely hear each other over the ~~screaming~~ singing. Isabela turns towards Hawke, raises a questioning eyebrow.

“By the way, have you told him yet?” She asks, gesturing her bottle in Fenris’s direction.

“No. No, no, no,” Hawke says, her cheeks pink with more than just the flush of alcohol.

“Coward,” Isabela scoffs.

“Yes, fuck you. You can handle it like a champ, but I am a tender and fragile flower whose feelings get hurt very easily,” Hawke says, pressing a hand against her chest, eyebrows raised and nodding intensely with each word, not breaking eye contact. “Rejection hurts me Isabela. It hurts me.” Isabela throws back her head and laughs.

“And if he doesn’t reject you?”

“Are you kidding? He’s – _him_ , and I’m…” Hawke gestures vaguely at herself. Thanking the Maker as Anders trips, falls, takes Fenris down with him and soon enough they’re half cat-fighting.

“Alright, alright, break it up you two. Can someone take him? Hawke, you take Fenris,” Varric is dividing up the duties as Aveline pulls Anders up from the floor. Sebastian helps Hawke with Fenris, an arm over each their shoulders. “There’s a bed upstairs for them.”

“I can handle this,” Hawke tells Sebastian. Taking the stairs one by one, taking Fenris to the guest bedroom.

“Thanks Hawke,” Fenris mumbles as she helps him sit on the bed.

“No problem,” she says. She turns, meaning to leave, but he reaches out, takes her hand. “Fenris?” Turning back to him, leaning over slightly. “Is there something you nee –” A sentence stopping abruptly as he reaches up, pulls her down towards him. Mouth crashes against mouth, lip against lip, and he still tastes like the wine. As they part, he blissfully smiles and lies down on the bed. He’s asleep in seconds, leaving Hawke speechless and stunned.

* * *

In the morning, both Anders and Fenris sit at the breakfast table with their head in their hands. Hawke settles into a chair across from Fenris, ignores the pancakes in front of her. “Hey, Fenris?” When he looks up, he looks absolutely miserable. Eyes blood shot with dark circles underneath, the unhappiest downturn of his mouth. “Do you remember last night?”

“No,” he grumbles, voice hoarse from its overuse last night. Hawke purses her lips, begins to nod.

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Okay, yeah. No doubt. Cool. Cool,” she says, reaching for the syrup. “Cool, cool, cool.” She drowns her pancakes in it, takes a sorry bite.


	50. Faded Calm (Fenris x Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I would love to see Fenris’s reaction to Varick’s letter about Hawke staying in the fade (in a situation where Fenris and Hawke were in a relationship) No preference on male or female Hawke. I’m ready to have my heart broken

They’ve rebuilt the Chantry. They had to rebuild almost the entirety of Hightown, but this, this is what stands out to him the most. Not quite as extravagant as the last, but still no less beautiful. The half ruined statue of Andraste stands at the front. Her face cracked, arms missing. Chipped and broken, pieced back together with what was left, what they can find. Looking upwards, the light of the sun on the half of her face which remains. Sebastian takes a seat beside him. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before,” he says, voice echoing in the emptiness. Fenris turns his head away from Andraste, to Sebastian’s softly smiling face. Without a word, he passes him the piece of parchment.

Sebastian takes it, a puzzled frown tainting the smile. Evidence of the letter having been crumpled and smoothed, over and over again. Some of the words have been smudged by water, ink standing no chance against the tears. The smile falters, fades, sours. “Fenris,” Sebastian says quietly, “I’m so sorry.” Fenris stands, his hands resting on the pew in front of him. Fingertips against colder wood, and he’s looking at the statue again. Turning, walking away, and pausing at the end. He doesn’t look back at Sebastian.

“Carver is coming,” he says. The sound of his steps are maddening to him. Since Hawke, he never had a need to go inside the Chantry. Now, he thinks he would smash the rest of the statue if he could. They replace the statue, eventually. Fenris never knows. He never steps inside the Chantry again.

He sits at the table, hands linked together, staring at the red around his wrist. Carver sits across from him, looking far older than when Fenris saw him last. He wears the Warden armor well, gained a beard. Carver rubs a hand through it as he sighs, leans forward. “One of the conditions of me coming here was looking into a Darkspawn sighting nearby. I figured I’d take care of it tomorrow,” he says.

“I will accompany you,” Fenris tells him. Carver doesn’t argue.

“I thought I would ask Merrill and Isabela to come with us. Be like old times again,” he says. Fenris simply nods. Pushing himself up and away from the table, and Carver listens to his footsteps heading up the stairs. Part of the estate that been taken by a boulder, singed by fire. Carver stands in the foyer and can barely tell. It looks the same. Feels different.

Merrill holds her staff worriedly, looking at Fenris and Isabela walking side by side. “Has he said anything?” Carver asks her, under his breath. Merrill shakes her head.

“He’s been so calm,” Merrill tells him. Fenris had taken the time to visit every one of them, to tell them what had happened. Seemingly almost detached from it, clinically speaking it, as though he were simply telling them about some new group of bandits on the Wounded Coast. Denying their attempts to reach out, to comfort. “He says he’s fine.” Carver studies the way Fenris holds himself. The stiff line of his shoulders, the straight back. Stubbornly holding his head high. He isn’t fine.

They come upon the Darkspawn soon enough. A group of them, wandered out from some cave. They fight them among long grass, under a clear sky. Old times indeed, except for a few simple differences. Merrill’s magic is destructive, not quite so kind. Proficient for attacking, not so for defending. Isabela flirting around the edges with her blades, Carver leading the charge through the middle. Fenris finds himself wandering, chasing the Darkspawn further back. Stabbing the final one through and through.

The Darkspawn screams at the edge of his blade, screams at Fenris. Flecks of spit and blood and its hands dig into the sword around its middle, ripping at the flesh of its palms. He wonders if Darkspawn can feel pain. They say a song links them, so that they are never alone. He wonders if the others will hear its song die. Pulling the blade roughly back, hacking at it again. And again, and again. The Darkspawn screams, Fenris screams back.

At a distance, Carver throws out his arm, stops Isabela from going to him. The wind shifts through the grass, swaying peacefully. Not a cloud in the sky, warm sun on their skin. Fenris breathes heavily on shaking legs, covered in blood and other things. Leaning against his sword, the tip of it buried in the ground. Eyes wide without seeing, staring at all that fucking grass. Taking up his sword and throwing it to the side. The three of them watch as Fenris paces back and forth, his hands moving.

From his temples to his hips, waving them in air. Some wordless conversation with himself, or a Maker that doesn’t exist for him anymore. Stomping down the grass, brushing hair out of his eyes. Tilting his head upwards. It’s the sort of cry that tears the back of the throat, empties lungs. A pain to match the one inside, and does not echo. It falls into silence as Fenris falls to his knees, crumples to the ground. Bending over, holding his wrist to his chest, other hand around the token. Only when they hear the sobs begin does Carver lower his arm.


	51. Together (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Mage warden conflicted about her feelings for zev and not 100% sure how to act on them

She carries a lingering fear. It cuts at the edge of her bones, cultivated by years spent in the tower. Not a fear of herself, or of him. No, it is the great _other_ which she fears. The Chantry sisters who would punish apprentices for being caught kissing in the hallways. The Templars who would rip couples apart, send them to different circles. Babies taken from their mothers arms, the fathers with a fresh brand on their foreheads. She learned quickly not to care too deeply. Not to get attached. So when Zevran takes her hand and lifts it, kissing the back of it with a low bow and a wink, she fears.

At first, she thought it might be fine. Two people simply fulfilling each other’s physical needs. Then, the late nights. Spent in the tent, unable to sleep, curled close together. Speaking secret things, softer thoughts. The things she’d never tell anyone else, all that she’s kept deep inside. Her hand, tracing over his. Following his fingers, the lines across his palm. Kissing his wrists, the tattoos that wind. The crushing kisses where he seems so desperate, does not want to let go. Some pained expression on his face, the lingering touches at her cheeks. The way he smooths back her hair as they fuck, planting kisses on her forehead. A brand of a different sort, one only she can see, feel.

The way he looks at her after, his face so close to hers. Legs still entwined, her hands drifting over his back. Heavy breathing, flushed cheeks, and he looks so confused. Resting his forehead against hers, nose against nose, as if her eyes might hold his secrets. She just knows she feels the same, looks to him for answers. Perhaps they might find it together. 


	52. Burned Twice (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Do you ever take prompts for zevran x m!warden? Bc it would be so lovely to see something written by you about a clumsy m!surana and Zevran

It seems so small, so unimportant. Standing in front of the fire, holding the box in his hands. Nothing special about it, locked and plain. It’s what inside that matters, precious to so many. The saving grace for maybe one. “Do you believe in it?” Surana raises his head, looking away from the box, and at Zevran. Sitting on the small log beside the flames, face illuminated by flickering light. Elbow on his knee, face in his hands, pointing at the box. Surana sighs.

“I honestly don’t know,” he says. “I don’t remember much of what I was taught before the Circle. And there… well, the Chantry sisters let us know the Maker was watching at every turn.” The smallest quirk of a smile. “We were taught so often about the Maker that it stopped meaning anything for me. Maybe there’s a Maker. Maybe Andraste was the Maker’s bride. I don’t know.” Holding the box a little tighter, the ashes inside of it.

Zevran leans back, stretches out his hand. “May I see?” He asks. Surana takes one step forward before stumbling on a root, tripping forward, the box fumbling out of his grasp. They both go diving immediately, as the box falls, rolls towards the fire. Two hands slap down on it from two different directions, Zevran and Surana staring at each other wide eyed. On the ground, in the dirt, on their bellies. The fire flickers, the grins begin. Bursting into muffled laughter as they roll away, the box clutched to Zevran’s chest.

Placing it on the log where he once sat, before crawling over to Surana. Straddling him in triumph, leaning over, pressing their hands down against the dirt as he links their fingers together. Titling his head, a mischievous smile. “Perhaps we do not tell Leliana about this, hmm?” Zevran says.

“I almost burned Andraste for a second time,” Surana wheezes. They crumple together, Zevran’s forehead against his, struggling to keep their chuckling quiet.


	53. Left Behind (Anders x Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: So I saw the post about Fenris’s reaction to the letter about Hawke staying in the fade. Can we have one with Anders? (As if they were in a relationship)

They call him Nathaniel. He doesn’t think his old friend would mind much, the borrowing of his name. He might even find it funny. Even if he used his real name, he doubted any in the village would turn him in. They had come across it in their travels, found it remote and isolated, but friendly and in dire need of a healer. His presence was a blessing for them. He was greeted everywhere he went, and most days, he didn’t pay for his own food or drink. He had helped delivered sons, daughters, healed mothers and fathers, eased joints and set bone. Settling into an easy existence, far away from Templars and Chantry folk.

Hawke would spend the time before sleep, nestled into the bed beside him, talking about how much this place was a reminder of Lothering. Before the darkspawn, before even Malcolm died. Always suited to farm work, the fields and the cows, the life Hawke had thought they’d left behind forever. Anders treasured those moments, speaking of a past that wasn’t so painful. The stories of Carver and Bethany, and the baker’s boy who had a hopeless crush on Hawke. Softly whispered words in the dark, tender touch, and his soul could almost be at peace.

He knew why, of course, he couldn’t go with Hawke to Skyhold. Hawke’s presence would be enough of a stir. His would be… unnecessary danger. Walking into the lion’s den. He knew why, as well, Hawke couldn’t stay. To be called upon, to put themselves into service. It is what Hawke was born for. Still, it doesn’t make those now too quiet nights less uneasy. The fire far too noisy. The crickets practically in his ear. Above all else, his thoughts are louder. “Doesn’t seem like you’re sleeping well Nate,” one tells him as they rest after planting this year’s crop. Anders only nods, rubs his eyes.

As bad as the time before sleep is, the dreaming is far worse. Hawke always features. Standing in front of him, standing in burning Lothering. Hawke, stretching out a hand, begging Anders, “please, love, save me. Please, I can’t take it anymore.” He reaches out, meaning to take their hand in his, but his always passes through theirs. Unable to touch, only to stand close. To listen and not to comfort. To watch as Hawke goes to knees, crumples to ground, repeating over and over, “please.”

Anders kneels in the field, wears a stray hat. It was one that always made Hawke laugh. “You can be the town scarecrow,” Hawke had said. Sweat on his brow, down his back, pulling at the weeds. He looks up, squinting in the midday sun, and the glint of metal catches his eye. Looking over, seeing some soldier speak with one of the townsfolk. Pointing out Anders in the field, and the soldier turns. On his chest, the Inquisition’s emblem.

The sun is extinguished from him almost instantly. The ground cold beneath him. Dropping the spade, his hands fisted over his knees. He looks at that soldier approaching, and knows. Slowly taking off his gloves with trembling hands. Rising to his feet, aching from more than just the morning’s work. “You are Anders, then? They told me you would be called Nathanial here. I come as a friend,” the soldier says, extending the letter towards them.

“No you don’t,” Anders says bitterly. Snatching the letter from him, taking off his hat. He leaves it there as he walks away. Towards the forests that border the farmland, not looking back. He imagines the soldier will leave as quickly as he had come. He walks, and walks, doesn’t notice the sun fading. The letter, unopened, crumpled in his hand. He walks, and walks, until he trips over a root. Stumbling down a small hill, dirt on his trousers and on his cheek. Pushing himself up on hands and knees, moving to sit, his back against a tree.

Pulling his knees up, leaning his head against the bark. Closing his eyes, holding the letter in his hands. His eyes open slowly as he opens it. Reading what he already knows, casting fine ink to the side. He presses his hands against his ears. It’s too loud, all of it. He fights it as best he can. But still, his chin shakes. Biting his bottom lip, the shuddering inhale. Fluttering eyelashes but still the tears fall. Anders rocks back and forth, choking back sobs. He is truly alone, now.


	54. Realistically (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 65 for chronically ill fenhawke?? “Look at me—just breathe, okay?”

He knows. He knows, realistically, that it isn’t worse. It only seems that way. Feels that way. Getting up the stairs was agony. Barely able to lift each leg, to plant a foot on each step. Knuckles white, hand wrapped around the bannister. Dragging himself forward, stumbling to the door. It slams open carelessly as Hawke takes a shuddering breath. Find the bed blind in the dark, his hands fisting in the sheets. He can’t even lift himself into the bed. Instead, he allows himself to fall, sink to the floor. He knows it isn’t worse. He knows it only feels that way. He knows but that knowing doesn’t make it hurt any less. Closing his eyes, leaving the fire unlit. Too much effort to even think of lighting it.

He doesn’t know how long he sits that way. Crumpled so, feeling every lick of pain surge through his body. Some deep ache, a drum of the worst sort of beat. He can hear the words in his head – instructions of how to breathe, what to do. Hawke tries, and can’t quite seem to get it right. Too preoccupied with other things. Things that make it feel worse. The beat, the beat, and he doesn’t hear the steps on the stairs, the door being slowly pushed open. He does feel the hands on his arms, the hand on his cheek, turning him to look. “Hawke,” Fenris says, kneeling down beside him, a stitch in his brows.

The worried glance, the concerned downturn of his mouth. Fenris’s hand squeezes his arm as his other thumb moves slowly over his cheekbone. “Hawke can you hear me?” Hawke reaches out only slightly, tapping Fenris’s elbow.

“My mother,” Hawke says, his voice hoarse, cracked and dry. Speaking the words, speaking it real, only makes it flare even more. He knows, but he still groans with it, a stitch in his ribs, breathing erratic.

“Look at me,” both hands on Hawke’s face, lifting his head to look at him, “breathe.” Fenris takes an audible breath, a slow exhale. In the dark, Hawke listens, matching his breathing to his. “Just breathe.” The palms of his hands are so warm. Hawke knows it would be slightly colder where lyrium lines cross, but even then… he’s here. In his house. Worried for him. Hawke reaches up, wraps a hand around Fenris’s wrist.

“Thank you,” he says softly. The line of Fenris’s mouth thins as he stiffly nods. He stands, extends his hands towards Hawke. Lifting him to his feet, helping him settle on the bed.

“I will make tea. Stay here,” Fenris tells him.

“You don’t have to,” Hawke says, his hand still holding his.

“I want to,” Fenris says, and slips away from his grasp. He knows, but it still hurts. Once, Leandra had told him that she hoped he knew what he was doing. At the time, Hawke only knew that he loved him. Now, Leandra is dead and Hawke still loves him. He can only hope, that one day, Fenris might feel the same.


	55. Lucky (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “You’re lucky you’re cute” - Alistair/warden (can you tell I’m replaying origins?)

“What does it feel like?” He asks, kneeling at the edge of the river bank, torso bare and his wet shirt in his hands. She turns to him, tilts her head slightly, and raises her eyebrows.

“What does what feel like?” She asks. Gesturing with his shirt, little droplets of water thrown in her direction. She’s wearing an old tunic, her proper robes bunched in her arms. Channeling the heat through them, warming and drying them slowly.

“Magic,” he says. “I always wondered but for some reason I never asked any mages. Figured you’re good enough as any.” Alistair gives her a lopsided grin, and she chuckles under her breath, shakes her head.

“Good enough as any,” she mocks. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” He scratches the back of his head.

“You know I think you’re the best. Mage. Mage, I mean. The best mage I’ve ever known,” he says. She laughs wholeheartedly, swaying on her feet. Moving over to him, sitting on the rock. In those old trousers, tattered shirt, with blood stained still on her cheek and Maker, she’s still the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen. He looks up at her, his shirt soaking into his trousers, watching as she thinks.

“It’s strange,” she says, looking across the bank. “I don’t know if I really know how to explain it. It’s almost like cold. Not the type of cold you feel on your skin in winter, but the type when you’re sick. An energy that doesn’t go away, but just sits there… underneath the surface. It’s up the mage to channel that energy and tell it what to do. It’s almost, living? It listens. Like I said, strange.” Turning towards him, smiling softly.

“Did you want me to get that for you?” She asks, pointing downwards at his lap.

“Did I what?” Looking downwards, seeing the shirt still soaking there. “Oh! Oh, yes please,” he says, handing it to her. The moment her fingers touch the fabric, he can feel the warmth spread, touch where he’s holding.


	56. Fading Nightmare (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Have you ever written Fenris waking from a nightmare and Hawke comforting him?  
> -  
>  _I have, and I swear there are happy ones in the first collection of prompts haha_

“Fenris.” He doesn’t feel the roll of the waves over his feet. Standing on the edge of a beach he doesn’t recognize, and the wind moves through her hair, doesn’t touch his. He doesn’t realize yet, how strange it is. The water some sickly color, the sky a paler green. She stands beside him, her arms crossed. She hasn’t worn that armor in years. The familiar leather, metal, mark of the Champion. Her hair is longer. Her blue eyes have been replaced with green. She turns to him, and the smile is fleeting. “I can’t fight it any longer,” she tells him, looking back out over the water.

“I didn’t want to leave without speaking to you first,” she says. “Even if you’re not really here.” Her knuckles are white, squeezing tightly, fingertips pressing into her arms. Stray strands of hair wisp across her face, the spray of water on her cheeks. She puts a foot on the rock, presses at the moss there. He holds out his hands, and he is almost transparent. He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. Rocks float in the air above them, shadows lurk in the cliffs behind her.

“I can barely say this properly. I hear their voices, constantly.” The shadows that lurk on the cliff, lurk on her shoulders. In every crevice of her armor. Hands upon hands upon her body, wrapped around her wrists, wrapped around her ankles. “I think this is the best thing for me to do,” she says. Turning to face him, and he reaches out to her. His hands pass through her skin, but she doesn’t seem to notice. He screams her name, but there is no sound.

“What I want to say – I owe – I want to say that,” her eyes squeeze closed, the frown working its way into her brow. Pursed lips, planting her feet, opening her eyes to look at him again. “I know it will be painful, at first. But without me, you’ll be alright. I know you will. I owe all the happiness in my life to you,” she says. “Thank you. For everything. If anyone could have saved me, I think it could have been you.” His face, so close to hers, speaking so many things, and she is unable to hear it. Reaching for her, unable to touch.

She bends down, picks up that large rock at her feet. It sits heavy in her arms. The shadows are sweeping down from the cliffs, gathering around her. The water must be cold, but he doesn’t know. Walking with her, beside her, watching her hair swirl around her face. She looks up, green through fading green, those last few bubbles escaping her lips.

“Fenris.” His eyes snap open, and he surges upwards, crashing against her. She must have been in the process of shaking him awake. Hawke’s hands settle on his shoulders, move to his face, brushing back sweat-soaked locks of hair. “Fenris, it’s alright. You’re awake now,” she says quietly. They’re still in the bed, at home together, tangled up in sheets, sitting close together. Hawke is looking at him with a brow stitched with concern, fluttering touches that convey the same. Fenris slowly exhales, lets his head fall to her shoulder.

She threads her fingers through his hair, rubs her other hand in comforting circles on his back. “You were screaming my name,” she tells him. His hands slip underneath her shirt, palms against her back. Feeling the warmth of her skin, the realness of her, holding her tightly.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Nothing to apologize for,” she says quietly. “You haven’t had a nightmare in a long time. It – worries me.” He slowly raises his head. Cupping her face in his hands, pressing his forehead against hers.

“Don’t leave. Don’t go to the Inquisition,” he says. Her fingertips touch light at his wrist, and the frown deepens still.


	57. Wolves, PT. 2 (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Im not sure if requests are open but Can I get a follow up to protective Fenris and sick Hawke? 

Teeth sink into his arm. Piercing into flesh, and he cannot shake the wolf. The blood burns brightly against the snow. Brighter still, the lightning of his lyrium, quickly activating and falling out of the wolves reach. Teeth snap, angry it had its prey in its grasp. Fenris is moving slowly further and further away from the cave. As he fights the pack, he leads them away from Hawke. One already lies dead, his sword wet with its blood. The wolves are fast, agile, unchallenged. They circle him. They take their time. One thing, to fight against men. Another, to fight beasts.

Harder still, to move properly in the snow. Stuck in the narrow spaces between the trees, his sword unsuited for this type of fight. He doesn’t hate the wolves. Not for this, not for what they are born to do. As he moves, he leaves a trail of red behind him. Slick between his fingers, dripping downwards. The wolf turns, leaps, and Fenris raises his sword. Clenching its jaw down around the blade, dragging it with it. Another takes advantage of the opening given, makes for Fenris’s neck. He barely catches it in time, a hand clenched around its throat. He waits for the third to leap.

Instead, the wolf flies backwards, yelping as it slams heavy against a tree. Fenris’s head whirls as their attention shifts. Hawke, unsteady on her feet, in naught but the plain tunic and leggings. Her breath fogs in the air, her cheeks red with blooming sickness. Panting as she raises her hand again, palm out. Pushing, and the next wolf meets a taste of her magic. Dropping the wolf struggling in his grasp as the other lets go of his sword. Snarling and growling, turning to this new one. Fenris doesn’t give them a chance. Slicing forward, lopping off the head of one he believes to be the alpha. The others turn tail, and run.

They stare at each other, for a brief moment. Through the light of the moon, the falling wisps of snow. The silence of it, the wind in the trees. Then, Hawke collapses. Fenris is already running forward as he sheathes his sword, drops to his knees beside her. She isn’t wearing her boots. He winces as he picks her up in his arms. Only now that the fight has ended does he allow himself to feel it truly. His arm screams pain but still he holds her steady, carrying her back to the cave. “I woke up and you were gone,” she mumbles into his chest. “I saw blood, and I couldn’t –” The sentences soften, fades, as the cough takes its place.

He lays her to rest back among the furs, pulls them up around her tightly. She looks at him through a haze, half-lidded eyes, and reaches upwards. Fisting a hand into his tunic, not letting go. Pulling him down until he’s next to her and her other hand reaches for his arm. Her magic is familiar. Even sick like this, she still keeps it slow, warm, and comforting. He puts her hand over his. “Hawke, leave it. You should conserve your strength. Rest. I can deal with it,” he tells her. She shakes her head, hair stuck to a forehead soaked with sweat. Stubborn.

Only when she is satisfied does she let him go. He fills one of the smaller pots with snow, hangs it over the fire. Letting it cool before raising it to cracked lips, making her drink. Pot, after pot, after pot. One he uses to wipe her down, to tenderly brush a wet cloth across her face. Another he uses to clean the blood from him. She sleeps fitfully, in spurts. He doesn’t sleep at all. He sits beside her, Hawke curled up into his warmth, keeps his eye on the mouth of the cave. Resting his cheek on her head, his arm around her shoulders, waiting for the sun to rise and the snow to stop.


	58. Out Loud (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “Did I say that out loud?” PLEASE. that good shit, any pairing

They spend longer than they need to in the ruins. Sand and dust all about them, but Dorian seems perfectly happy. Pulling down an almost crumbling book from one of the highest shelves, placing it carefully on the desk. Opening it with almost childish glee, his fingertips running over ancient script. Lavellan leans against the wall, crosses his arms and smiles. Letting himself relax, watching as Dorian is bent over almost close enough to have his nose touch the pages. There’s wonder in his look when he briefly raises his head, flashes a wicked grin at Lavellan. “This place is amazing,” he says, “so much knowledge that had been frozen in time.”

Going back to the library, running his hands over the spine of book after book, after book. Taking the few that interest him, stacking them on the desk. The rifts in the area had been sealed, and their camp wasn’t far. Worth being in the heat of the Approach to see Dorian’s eyes lit up so. Lavellan is more than content to watch him read, resting his head against the wall. Looking at him fondly and, “ _I love him. Vhenan. Vhenan. Vhenan_.” He wonders for a moment if he was the one who spoke it out loud.

Whirling, taken off guard, finding Cole standing just behind him. “Creators, Cole! I told you not to look in my head,” Lavellan says through clenched teeth.

“I didn’t have to,” Cole says, “You were thinking it so loudly.” The book Dorian had been looking at closes slowly. Standing up straight, and Lavellan presses a hand against his forehead, turning back to Cole. Staring at him wide-eyed, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Cole, would you go bother Bull please?” Dorian asks with a smile as he leans against the desk. Clearly amused, playing with the end of his mustache, watching as Cole adjusts his hat and heads out into the sunlight. Lavellan lets his hand fall, looks over his shoulder. “You. You should close that door and then come here and kiss me.” Dorian lights the torches with the barest movement. Lavellan closes the door, closes the distance between them.  


	59. The Quill (Varric x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “Hold me back!’ for Varric and Hawke if possible. I feel this has potential for an hilarious disaster ^^

The quill pauses just above the page. There is ink at its tip, ready to write. Still, it stays, and the ink slowly drips down. A drop, just there, staining the parchment. Varric sits by candlelight, alone at that table, alone with that empty page. He can almost picture her, just like she was, sitting beside him. All those late nights spent at the Hanged Man. Hawke would sit beside him, watching as the words would take him. The candle would burn low, Hawke’s head in her arms, falling asleep while he worked. The writing always came easier, with her by his side.

He would joke, sometimes, that Hawke would need to hold him back. Save him from writing out every last detail, from spending too long on one point. The longest he ever spent writing were all those letters. Even when they lived in the same city, still they would exchange them. Even when they were closer. Times she would spent with her head on his shoulder, watching as he wrote a letter to her. The letters she wrote to him now sit in a box in his room, neatly organized, and carefully kept. He thinks he might know them off by heart, by now. Always a comforting thing, to pull one free, to see her familiar script.

She wrote the last one on the stones of Weisshaupt. Singed by fire, that familiar script in a shaking hand. That’s the one he’s read the most. Of course Hawke would be the one to stay behind. She had always been protective to a fault. Not letting any die, not while she could save them. Varric looks at the empty chair beside him. The ghost of her swims in his vision, smiling gently. Reaching out, and he can almost feel her fingertips against his arm.

He thought it might be time. To go back to what he’s always done best. Varric stares at the empty parchment, and there are no words. They’ve all gone, left with Hawke. He doubts they’ll come back. Varric puts the quill down.


	60. And Loves (Zevran x Warden, Fenris x Hawke, Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “I think I’m falling in love with you.” for your favorite pairing <3

He hasn’t stayed the night before. Partially for the Warden’s comfort, mostly for his own. He’s always felt safest with a knife under his pillow. To stay in the same tent would mean disarming himself in more ways than one. Zevran is grateful that the Warden says nothing when he stays. Simply curling up next to him, falling asleep. His Warden falls _asleep_ next to _him_. More than the hand extended in mercy, more than the constant reassurances, this – this is trust. Zevran reaches out, careful fingertips tracing over their forehead, cheek, the line of their jaw. Over lips he’s kissed before, wants to kiss a thousand times more.

He should have stayed sooner. Perhaps then he would have known the right words to put to the feeling, the twisting tightness in his chest at the sight of his Warden. It was supposed to be gone, all of it. The Crows had meant to stamp it out of him, rip the feelings from him. But Zevran looks at his sleeping Warden, and loves.

* * *

Fenris stands guard, walks carefully behind them as they make their way to the Wounded Coast. Looking at the jagged cliffs, the rolling waves in the distance, but mostly looking at Hawke’s back. The line of their shoulders, the way they hold themselves. Hawke looks over their shoulder, and Fenris look away. It was a polite request, the ask to accompany them to kill a few bandits. Nothing less, nothing more. Since the night Fenris had walked away, Hawke had never asked for anything. Demanding no reason, expecting no explanation. Hawke is simply Hawke, and accepts.

He clenches his hands into fists, and looks back. Hawke has already turned away, and is talking to the others. Fenris knows they only looked back to check on him. Hawke burns with love as naturally as the sun is warmth on skin. He has always thought himself an irremediably flawed thing. A creature made of metal and lyrium. Under the wing of Hawke’s acceptance, he allows himself to believe himself something more. Fenris looks at his smiling Hawke, and loves.

* * *

When Dorian wakes, it’s to the sight of the Inquisitor curled up on the windowsill. Naught but a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a mug of something warm in his hands, one leg dangling down. No doubt looking out onto the courtyard of Skyhold, counting the heads of all the people he means to save. Dorian doesn’t sit up, doesn’t allow him to know, just yet, that he’s awake. Content to simply watch him. An empty bed might have caused him worry once, but Dorian now knows that his Inquisitor will always be nearby.

He had braced himself, more than a few times, to wake alone. Without a word, without a glance, just the simple understanding that it would never be anything more. The Inquisitor looks over at the bed, and Dorian can’t quite close his eyes in time. A soft chuckle as he puts down his drink, moves to the bed. Sitting on it, leaning over Dorian, a thumb brushing over his cheekbone. The Inquisitor was never shy with affection. Making it clear time and time again that he would never abandon Dorian. So Dorian tilts his head up, kisses his Inquisitor, and loves. 


	61. After The Storm (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Kiss prompt number 18 for fenhawke? "An angry kiss"

Cruel, for the clouds to gather, for the sky to turn grey. The scent of rain on the wind, and knowing its fall was imminent. Hawke had limped home, expecting to fall into a bed. She stands in front of the estate, arms wrapped around herself. Blood on her face, crusted in her hair. Half of it now stands missing, caved into rubble. Chantry stone sits in her living room, fire has taken the garden. Parchment flutters, books still burn. The bannister lies in pieces on the floor, and the Amell sigil is cracked and broken. Staring at it for a few long moments, before Hawke puts hands over her face, and cries.

Fenris slowly wraps an arm around her. He knows she isn’t simply mourning the estate. The last remembrances of a family now broken. The bored carvings Isabela had etched under the foyer table. The books Varric had given her. Even the copies of Anders’s manifesto. The little halla figurine from Merrill that she kept on the mantle, and the candles Sebastian had given her. A quilt, by Aveline’s own hand, all the letters Carver had written. The pages she had kept with Fenris’s stuttered attempts at learning to read, learning to write. She mourns memory. She mourns family. She mourns the home she thought she had in Kirkwall. He knows it will not be the same. The city may recover, but who knows what they must think of their Champion now. She could not save them from all of this.

Moving his arm over her shoulders, slowly guiding her away from the ruin. Stepping over rock and rubble, to find Fenris’s mansion mercifully untouched. She wipes away her tears, forces herself to stand straight. They wash up together. Fenris holds her face steady as he gently wipes away the blood, and they do not speak. There is nothing left to say. Her face remains splotchy red from the tears, the grief, and the ordeal they are still yet processing. His fingers curl at her cheeks. He cannot help the twitch of anger in his brow as he leans forward, presses a kiss to her forehead.

It’s not anger at her, never at her, but what has been taken from them. She had fought for her place in Kirkwall. Fought for her friends and for any who asked it of her. She had given herself time and time again to a city that did not deserve her. This is how she is repaid. They lie in his bed together, Hawke curled up around him. Legs tangled together, her head in the crook of his neck. He brushes back stray strands of hair from her face, tucks them behind her ear. Her fingers move in slow circles on his shoulder, and they listen to the rain fall against the roof.


	62. Pretend (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Maybe 23. “Just pretend to be my date.” for fenhawke?

It pays the bills. His sleeves are still rolled up from washing dishes, the tie loose around his neck. He keeps the jacket slung over his shoulder as he leans against the wall, the apron tied around his waist. Running a hand through his hair, looking up at the barely blinking stars. It’s always been too bright in the city. Listening to the cars speed past the hotel, the faint echo of the music playing inside. It’s always the same at these things. The rich toasting the rich, while the poor serve. Fenris’s breath fogs in the air, the coming winter chill. Looking at the watch on his wrist, and his break is just about over.

The door is propped open by a flimsy piece of wood, one that dislodges and falls when she slams the door open. Stamping out into the alleyway, marching past him without seeing him. He dives for the door, doesn’t make it in time. Two annoyed taps of his forehead against the door – wonderful, he’ll have to go in the front now. He slowly turns around, looks at the woman who currently has one hand against the wall, holding herself steady, as she reaches down and takes off what appear to be very expensive heels.

“Thank you,” he says, and she looks up startled, “for locking the door.” He points over his shoulder at it. She looks from him, to the door, one heel in her hand and curses loudly. Her raven hair is carefully pinned back, and the earrings glitter where they hang. The red dress is striking, hugging her completely, and Fenris clears his throat. “You’ll have to go back in through the front.” Hooking fingers into her heels, she stamps forward, bare feet against the pavement. Her other hand on her hip, and she looks him up and down from head to toe.

“Pretend to be my date,” she says. Fenris’s eyebrows rise.

“Excuse me?”

“My mother is using this party to try and find me a ‘suitable’ partner,” she says through gritted teeth, “but if I have a date, she can’t parade me around. Eat fancy food with me and dance a bit, that’s all. You help me with this and I’ll owe you my life.” Such exaggeration. The silver necklace sparkles on her chest, but her eyes shine even brighter. Fierce blue, lined darkly, the red striking on her lips. Fenris sighs.

“My job –”

“I can pay you,” she cuts in instantly and out darts her hand, ready to shake his. Fenris regards it wearily, hesitates slightly, then reluctantly takes her hand. She shakes it vigorously as she drops the heels out of her other hand. Reaching up and adjusting his tie, stepping close to him as she unties the knot of the apron at the back of him. Reaching for his jacket, holding it out for him to step into it. She slips into her heels and gives him a slow smile.

“You’re gorgeous, by the way. Has anyone told you that?” She says, and Fenris suspects that there’s never been a day she could be described as ‘shy’.

“Uh,” he grunts, taken aback, “not recently.”

“Well you should be told. Every day at least. My name’s Hawke by the way, I guess that’s important,” she says as she slips her arm through his.

“Fenris,” he tells her.

“Well then Fenris,” she smiles, “are you ready to meet my mother?”


	63. In Rain (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Heyyyy would you mind throwing some Zevran/Amell feels out there? That would be great thanks I love your writing and Zevran deserves all the love <3

He wakes slowly, not wanting to wake at all. Rubbing his face into the blankets he’s bunched enough to call a pillow, twisting as he stretches. Blearily, he opens his eyes, his hair a mess across his face. He’s still lying on his stomach, his feet kicking in air as he wonders what woke him. Softly, the noise of the world filters in. The sound of the rain against his canvas tent, the distant crack of lightning and the closer rumble of thunder. He pushes himself up from the ground, cracking his back in three places as he sits before the entrance of his tent. His trousers have slipped half-way off of him, and he’s not wearing a shirt. Zevran absentmindedly scratches his chest before running a hand through his hair.

He reaches out, opens the flap to the tent. The rain is a blur in the dark, more clearly seen in the long grass. Pieces of it twisting and turning, folding under the pressure of water. The lightning cracks, and it seems almost day. For just a sacred moment. There is another light, one he sees out of the corner of his eye. She has one hand raised above her, and the rain does not touch her. Holding some unseen barrier above her, parting the flood with nary a touch. It falls like a veil around her. In her other hand, she holds a flame, flickering against her face, through the water.

She is looking skyward with a slight smile, wonder in the gaze. It’s almost as though she’s never seen rain before. Zevran sits quietly, cross-legged, tilts his head as he watches her. Amell closes her eyes, breathes deeply. Wet earth, the acrid scent of newness, the electricity close enough to taste. He smiles at her appreciation of it all. So few would stand willingly in the middle of such a storm. The mud is slick under his feet as he wades to her, rain drops in his eyelashes, a river running down his back.

Amell laughs when she sees him, soaked so. Finding shelter under her magic, but he is putting his hand over hers and snuffing out the flame. Reaching for the other one, slowly lowering it. As her hand falls, so does the magic, until she is soaked just as much as him. He smiles as he raises his hands to her face, brushes a thumb over her cheekbones. Her hand is still warm from the fire, moving over his back. Leaning down to kiss her, lips against lips, chilled from the night air but warming quickly.


	64. Spice (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: what about "I brought food" + "I can't do this without you" prompts for Zevran x male Surana? Thanks

Zevran puts hands on his shoulders, and Surana can only smile and accept the direction he’s taking them. Steering him like a horse and a cart, until Zevran finally plants them in front of a stall. Dramatically leaning forward, pointing at the goods, eyebrows raised. “These,” Zevran says, “are spices. They make food taste good.” Surana chuckles and shakes his head.

“I know what spices are Zev,” he tells him.

“You know? You know? No, I do not think you know. Alistair does not know. Wynne does not know. Morrigan barely knows and I do not know if Sten knows. Oghren is… Oghren. Every night I eat the food you all cook and my tongue suffers for it,” Zevran says, clenching his fists. Leaning forward, and those fists wind into Surana’s robes. “Suffers.” Surana laughing helplessly as the shopkeeper rubs his brows.

“I need you to make a commitment to good food. Any more of that terrible bland food and I will perish. You have to help. I cannot do this without you,” Zevran pleads. “Save me from Alistair’s mystery goop.” Surana moves forward, kisses Zevran with the laughter still on his lips.

“Since you ask so nicely,” he says.

“Thank you _amor_ ,” Zevran says, cupping Surana’s face with his hands, “you will not regret it.” This kiss is sloppier, more forceful, as he squeezes Surana’s cheeks together.

* * *

“And what, pray tell, are all of these bags you carry?” Morrigan says as she rises from the fire, looks at the sacks in both Surana’s and Zevran’s arms. “It seems your trip into Denerim was… successful?” Surana and Zevran exchange a glance before Surana turns back to face her.

“I brought food,” he says simply. Zevran follows after him as he walks away, a triumphant and beaming smile on his face.


	65. Something Desperate (Cullen x F!Inquisitor) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a friend

The scout hurries towards the training grounds in the camps, his arms filled with books and reports. Small things from Lady Josephine, more important things from Spymaster Leliana. Meant for the Commander, and his eyes alone. He is supposed to wait for Cullen’s opinion, his orders, then return to the others. The work never ends. Cullen is turning away from the yard, and he shakes his head the instant he sees the scout. “No,” Cullen says, “I am done for today. I am going to go to my office and wait for the Inquisitor’s return.”

“But sir, the Inquisitor has already returned,” the scout tells him. Cullen’s eyes widen and he is a blur as he races past the scout. A paper flutters out of the scout’s arms, into the mud. He sighs as he looks at it, bends down and picks it up. Then he begins the slow jog to Cullen’s office. Cullen, in the meantime, is marching a path into Skyhold, crossing the courtyard. Those who know nothing assume he is hurrying to some great emergency, but his own soldiers know better. The guards at the doors of the great hall exchange knowing smiles.

Cullen takes the stairs up to her quarters by two, his hands heavy on the railings. How long ago had she returned? How had he not heard the horn? They would have brought up the bath for her, food if she asked. Which meant that everyone would leave her alone for quite some time. His heart leaps into his throat as he thinks about seeing her, after long weeks spent apart. His hand finds the doorknob, twists it open. Another short flight of stairs to the landing of her quarters, and her eyes open at the sound of the door. Hands at the side of the tub, hair drifting about her in the water. Her eyes widen when she sees him.

Water spills over the sides as she rises quickly to her feet, out of the bath. “Cullen!” Pausing with his hand still on the banister, he drinks in the sight of her. Touched by the desert sun, bright and beautiful, with drops of water dripping down her body. She is _here_. “Cullen!” She opens her arms wide and Cullen moves forward instantly. She puts her hands on his shoulders as he lifts her out of the tub. Arms wrap around his neck as his wrap around her waist, her feet still dangling off the ground as he holds her close. Closing his eyes, breathing in the scent of lilacs on her skin.

Toes touch ground, and then the rest of her feet, as he cups her face. The leather of his gloves is soft against her, and he leans close. “I have,” he says as he kisses one cheek, “missed you,” and a kiss to the other, “dearly,” finally finding her lips. She tastes of cherries, part of the platter they had brought for her. Closing his eyes just as she closes hers, sway against each other. Her hand threads through his hair, keeps his face close. Tongue against tongue, and he groans softly into the kiss. The water rolls from her hair, down her body, against his furs, pooling at her feet.

He leans back only slightly, raising a hand to his mouth. Capturing the finger of one of his gloves, between his teeth, pulling it off of him. Throwing the glove to the side, and bare fingertips touch against bare skin. Smooth over her shoulder, down her arm. Back up again, tracing the line of her collarbone, twisting in the space between her breasts. Moving his hand against one, and his thumb catches a drop of water that sits on a pebbled nipple. Rolling it beneath his palm, while lips find hers once again.

Her hands are at the belt around his waist, pulling it free. “Cullen,” she says, impatient as his nose rubs against hers as their faces move, “I missed you too. So much.” Her breath is hot on his lips, her fingers deft at the lacings of his trousers. Her head rests against his shoulder, against his furs, as she reaches inside his trousers. She finds him hard and wanting, eager after so long. His bare hand tracks further down, against her belly and further still, until he finds that soft nest of hair at her cunt. His other hand splays at her back, holds her steady.

A finger moves in slow circles, steady pressure, against her clit. She wraps her hand around the base of his cock, feels him twitch underneath her touch. She has spent almost every night thinking of him, a desperate hand buried inside her smalls, wishing it was his hand instead. He has done the same, dreaming of her face as he brings himself to completion, wishing she was beside him. They sway together as they masturbate each other, the still air broken by the smallest grunts and groans, softer moans.

His fingers move through the folds of her, wet with more than just water. She finds him leaking at the tip, her thumb smearing the salty discharge down the underside of his cock. Pumping a finger inside of her cunt, and her back arches. Biting her bottom lip, tilting her face towards the heavens. He peppers her jaw with hard kisses, gently nibbling teeth. “Cullen,” she says, voice low and husky, “don’t make me beg.” He needs no further encouragement. Gloved hand finding the underside of her thigh, the other at her back, lifting her into his arms.

She holds on tightly, hands in his hair as she brings her face down to his. Her lips are soft and lush, red with attentions given. His tongue is playful but insistent, devouring the taste of her. He sits her on that windowsill, still holds her thigh. He reaches between them, takes himself in hand. Pressing the head of his cock against the entrance of her cunt, wetting himself with her want. His hips move carefully and deliberately, sliding against her, but not inside her. Not until she herself reaches down, finding his wrist, angling him the way she wants.

She gasps, her head tipped back against the window as he slams inside her to the hilt. Her hands hold tightly to the stone around the window, her back flush against the glass. His gloved hand squeezes tight at her thigh, while the other bruises at her hip. He closes his eyes, lost in lust, the feel of her so tight and hot around his cock. He cannot stop the beat of his thrusts, the grunt that comes with each one. Her legs wrap around his waist, encourage every bit of movement, her hands twisting into his cloak.

Her breasts shake with each heavy thrust, filling her up with every inch of him. Their pace is breakneck, urgent, desperate, and full of need. Her face is flushed with it, her breathing coming heavy. Her mouth open, and Cullen listens to the little mewling moans. The joining of flesh, her hands pulling at his furs, until his forehead presses against hers. Hunched over so, he fills her up again, and again, and again. Her cunt holds tight every time he pulls out, accepts wholly as he moves back inside. Wearing his armor, the furs, all of it, and the sweat rolls down his back. Water still drips in her hair, hangs onto her body.

Her feet are locked together behind him, and her toes curl. She thinks he might be able to feel the pulse of her in her cunt, her heart beating with pleasure so loud. Her eyes open, her gaze locks with his. Mouth open, panting his name, and that name falls into a breathless inhale. He is rewarded with the feeling of her cunt clenching around him, wave after wave of her orgasm rolling over him. It pulls him with her, draws out his own release. His hips stutter as he cums, pushed inside her as far as he can go, cock spilling seed.

She reaches upwards, her hand against his cheek. Over stubble, a thumb over his cheekbones. He turns his face slightly, kissing her palm. She keeps her legs locked around him, and does not let go.


	66. Hillside (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: hawke and fenris laughing and kissing in the rain, they're tired and relieved but most importantly, they're free

She follows him as they walk over fallen logs, through stubborn brush. His movements are ever so careful, almost practiced. He breaks no branches, disturbs no leaf. He looks from left to right, ever cautious as they travel. Sunlight filters through the canopy of trees, dances on his hair. Studying the back of him, the heavy bags he carries. His sword, as well, and the cloak they bought before they left. She tilts her head upwards, looks at the way the clouds begin to gather. She’s only ever wanted to give him everything. This, this is the last thing she wanted.

He had finally called Kirkwall home. Now he leaves behind that home, the life he built and the friends he’s made. Her fault. The Champion believes she’s more trouble than she’s worth. It’s not slavers that seek them, but Chantry soldiers. On the run once again, for her sake. He had insisted on coming with her. She had tried to convince him otherwise, but he would not have it. He had sat beside her at the kitchen table, and put his hand so gently over hers. “I will not leave your side,” Fenris had told her.  

He stops and so she stops as well, moving to stand beside him. A steep hillside in their way, almost a cliff – not impossible, but not easy either. Fenris shrugs off his bags, tosses them down. They roll from dirt into grass. His sword follows, throwing it like a spear. It lands perfectly beside his bags, tip in the ground. Without any hesitation, Fenris steps off the edge. Sliding his way down, a hand in the dirt, his feet controlling the rest. He comes to a running stop, then looks over his shoulder at Hawke.

She tilts her head as she looks at it. Reluctantly taking off her own bags, throwing them down in the same way. Fenris catches them as they roll near him, and he places them neatly. Her staff he catches with ease. She stands at that edge, shoulders stiff, her hands clenched into fists. “Are you alright?” He calls up to her. The wind sweeps through the trees, the gentle rustle of leaves. Then, the rain begins. Gently falling at first, dripping down. Hawke feels it on her cheek. A momentary calm. The storm follows quickly.

In the pouring rain, Fenris reaches out towards her, his arms outstretched. “I will catch you,” he says. Hawke brushes wet strands of hair out of her face, brushes away the raindrops on her eyelashes.

“I will – I don’t want to break you,” she says. Even through the pouring rain, she can see the disgruntled eyebrow rise. Opening his palms to her, encouraging her down. She sighs, and all at once, the exhaustion of the last few days catch up with her. Walking over field, through forest, with little sleep and worse food. All of this misery and somehow, she’s barely noticed. Fenris shakes away wet locks of hair and she smiles at the sight.

Turning back to her and he says, “Hawke, come to me.” And Hawke listens. She bowls into him, into his arms, and if not for the rain, he might have stayed upwards. Instead, they careen together backwards, trip and fall, right into wet grass and seeping mud. Hawke lies on her back with Fenris over her, his elbow planted in the ground. “ _Venhedis_!” The laughter bubbles, bursts out of her. She doesn’t mind the mud that’s coated her, the rain falling above her. She shakes with it, the ringing of it dampened by the storm.

His chuckle starts softly, grows louder, until he is laughing right along with her. The water runs off of him, onto her, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Helplessly, they smile at each other, with the occasional bit of laughter still making itself known, echoing in the way they look at each other. “I am glad I am with you, Hawke,” he says, “if not, you would have died on your first day.” Hawke purses her lips, cocking her head to the side, eyes wide as she stares at him, trying to hide her mirth. Not very well, as the smile spreads, her chin wobbles.

“Excuse you,” she says, feigning hurt, and he gives her a wicked grin. The laughter rings free and true once again, and a drop of rain falls from his hair, onto her cheek. He lowers himself carefully, kisses it away. Again, peppering her cheeks with affection, before she reaches up with muddy hands and holds his face steady. Not minding the mud in his hair, the cold rain on his back, for her lips are warm and his Hawke is happy. Safely here, with him.


	67. In Rain, pt 2 (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: Consider this a prompt?? Tragic followup to that adorable Zev/Amell cause I'm awful?  
> Follow up to [this prompt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13636923/chapters/32978580)

He climbs the steps slowly. His fingertips move against cold stone walls, every inch of him burning with exhaustion. Strands of hair have escaped their braid, wisp by his face. There’s blood on his cheek, splattered on the rest of him, and there’s an arrow still stuck in the back of his shoulder. He makes the climb although his body doesn’t want to, although he dreads what he might find at the top. It’s as though the archdemon’s death has summoned the storm, all those clouds gathering above. It’s what Zevran sees first. He feels the first drop of rain on his cheek.

Alistair is sitting on the ground, his back to the stairwell. The archdemon lies coiled around him, eyes blank and empty, the sword crowning it. Alistair’s head bowed, and he’s holding something in his arms. He turns his head, looks over his shoulder, some ruined look on his face. “I’m sorry,” he tells Zevran, “I tried to convince her. It should have been me.” He doesn’t quite understand what those words mean, not yet. Alistair’s voice is cracked, shaking in the middle. The rain bounces off his shining metal armor, little pinpricks of noise that scream in Zevran’s ears.

A few steps more, and he rounds where Alistair is sitting. Dropping to his knees across from him and Alistair still holds her. Zevran reaches out with shaking hands, “give her to me.”

“Zev-”

“Give her to me!” Zevran isn’t looking at Alistair. Only at her. Alistair carefully moves her, and Zevran takes her into his arms. Holding her gently, and he brushes back the stray locks of hair away from her face. Rubbing at the dirt on her face, keeping his hand at her cheek. The rain is beginning to fall in earnest now, and he cradles her close, trying to protect her from it.

“I’m sorry,” Alistair says again. Slowly rising to his feet, going to stop any others from coming up the stairs. Zevran barely registers his leaving.

“Amell,” and she does not wake, “my Warden,” and she does not stir, “ _amor_ ,” and her eyes will never open. The Crows were right. Attachments, feelings, love, would only bring hurt. And this… this aches. It twists his belly, acid bile in in his throat. It squeezes tight around his ribs, until he can barely breathe at all. He hugs her close as he rocks slightly back and forth, her head against his chest, her body limp in his arms. He forces in a shuddering breath as he looks at her. Leaning over her, pressing his forehead against hers. There’s no magic in the world now, nothing left to hold back his rain.


	68. Taunting (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 99 from the prompts for days; f!hawris?? im so curious about how youd interpret this “I don’t care what they said, it doesn’t mean shit!”

Her hands tremble at his waist, her arms wrap around him, and she buries her face in the crook of his neck. Holding him, hands fisted in the back of his tunic. “Fenris,” she says, her face tilting upwards. Moving her hand, reaching upwards, and the warm palm at his cheek tells him she is real. The lips on his confirm it even more, tinged with the salt of her tears. His arms around her, squeezing her tightly, and this is no dream, she has come back. He doesn’t ask where she’s been, what she’s seen. He simply breathes her in as they sway together, and close isn’t close enough.

“Hawke,” her name ripped hoarsely from him as he steps back and puts his hands on her shoulders. She reaches up, touches his wrists, and waits patiently under his gaze. “Hawke.” Surging forward, lifting her up into his arms, spinning her around in a tight circle.

* * *

“They had some sort of corrupted dragon,” she says softly as they sit at their kitchen table. She sits at the end, he sits on the side beside her. Her hand on the table, his hand over hers. His thumb, moving slowly over her knuckles as he listens. “It took out the bridge that we were standing on.” There are dark circles under Hawke’s eyes, and she holds his hand tightly. “We were falling and then the Inquisitor opened a Rift beneath us. Fenris, I was physically in the Fade. It felt – so different from anything else.”

“We landed in the demons realm. A very old, very powerful fear demon,” she says. She plants her other elbow on the table, rubs her eyes. Leaning against her hand, sighing before she continues.

“It spoke to us. Each and every one of us. Taunted us.” Her frown deepens as her fingers press against her temples. “It told me – it knew about Kirkwall. What happened. It told me I don’t matter.”

“You matter to me,” Fenris tells her softly. Her hand squeezes his as she drags her gaze to his. He reaches out, gently touches her cheek. She leans into his hand.

“It told me you were going to die. That it was going to be my fault.” Fenris drags his chair forward as she covers her face with her hands. Pulling her into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder.

“It meant to frighten you,” he tells her as he holds her, “its words meant nothing. I’m here, Hawke. I don’t intend to ever leave you. I also don’t believe that you would ever do anything to bring me to harm. You are far away from the demon now and we are safest when we are together.” She lifts her head up slightly to look at him, tears still glistening on her eyelashes.

“Are you scolding me for leaving you at the same time as comforting me?” She asks. He shifts his head back and forth as he pretends to think, gives her a small shrug. Hawke breaks into startled laughter, bubbling out of her helplessly. Fenris smiles slightly as he leans forward, wipes the tears from her cheeks.  


	69. Punctuation (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I gave you the most heartfelt love letter, but you gave it back to me with spelling and punctuation corrections?!" For Fenhawke, please. Also, congratulations on making it to 400 prompts! What a milestone!

“Lady Amell, a letter for you,” the scout says, from behind her. Hawke is sitting on the chair, her legs crossed and feet on the table. Holding a mug in her hands while resting it on her belly, and instead of looking over her shoulder, she simply tilts her head back as much as it’ll go, grins up at him.

“Thanks,” she says, raising one hand so he can put the letter in it, “and just call me Hawke.” On the other side of the table, his head lowered and scribbling something intently, Varric snorts amusement. Hawke moves to look at him, one eyebrow raised, putting the mug on the table. “What?”

“As if Josie would let them call you anything but Lady Amell,” he says, without looking up. Hawke chuckles as she rips open the envelope. This stop at Skyhold is brief detour. Circling her way back up from Adamant, gathering whatever Wardens she could find and bringing them back to the Inquisition’s fold. Acquiring information about Weisshaupt along the way.

Hawke scans the page, her frown growing deeper with each passing line. Her feet move off the table, plant themselves on the ground. Hawke leans forward and Varric puts his quill down as she looks up at him in horror.

“Varric, I’m in trouble. I’m in so much trouble,” she says, passing over the letter. He takes it, and from first glance, he can easily see that the letter is written in Hawke’s hand. Starting off with a flowing apology of her leaving, and moving into what happened at Adamant. More apologies, outlining her plans to go to Weisshaupt. Writing how she doesn’t mean to come back to Kirkwall, not just yet. However… in the margins and between lines, there are circles and corrections, little critical notes clearly written by Fenris. All formal, nothing that betrays forgiveness. At the very end, a simple sentence, _I’m on my way_. Varric barks out laughter as he passes it back to her.

“He corrected your spelling. And punctuation!” Hawke holds the letter to her chest, horrified.

“He’s so mad,” she hoarsely whispers. “He’s coming to kick my ass.” Varric dissolves into near giggles.  


	70. Daisy (Merrill x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Do you think you could write a cute M!Hawke/Merrill thing?

Hawke lies with his head on her lap, his hands linked over his belly. Eyes closed, listening to the wind rustle through the long grass. The distant, solitary trees, lush with leaves and heavy with fruit. Birds chirp to one another, crickets somewhere farther. The sun is warm on his skin, the ground a little colder beneath him. She’s humming softly as she picks at the small flowers between the grass, and plants them in his hair, in his beard.

She makes them perfect first. Removing the tiny leaves, blooming magic in the petals. Making them an even fuller white, giving them a healthy glow. They shine against the darkness of Hawke’s hair, little flecks of starlight. “Hawke,” she says as she leans over, her hands on his shoulders. He opens only one eye a crack, enough to see her smiling above him. “We should go back soon.” He sighs as he slowly pushes himself up to sit, her hands falling into her lap, and Hawke turns to face her.

Merrill looks beautiful, here amongst the green. He reaches out, brushes a hand against her cheek. Shifting closer to her, tilting his head as he looks at her adoringly. She deserves something better. He thinks that maybe he should take politics in Kirkwall more seriously. With the Viscount gone, and Orsino and Meredith squabbling, perhaps he could – build better homes. Bring industry back to Kirkwall’s docks, bring Darktown into the light. Enforce better policies for the elves, open up the alienage. Merrill looks at him with a puzzled smile.

“What are you thinking about?” She asks. She doesn’t know that she makes him want to be a better man. He leans forward, gives her a gentle kiss.

“Home,” he tells her.


	71. Careful (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 28 from the "writing prompts for days" list feels very Fenhawke-y and I'd probably die if you wrote something for them based on it. Love your writing so much, and tysm if you do <3 “That’s almost exactly the opposite of what I meant.”

“Remember when I told you to be careful? This is almost the exact opposite of what I meant,” he tells her. Hawke throws her head back and laughs, bright and clear, as she scrapes the blade of her staff against the floor, lights the spark, sweeps the flame. One of the gangs that plagues Kirkwall’s streets – the Dog Lords is what he believes they call themselves – and Hawke had simply walked into their hideout and greeted them, followed by a swift taunt. Fenris uses the broad edge of his sword to knock away the arrow, following after Hawke as she marches steadily forward. 

Aveline is focused, diving in beside them, shield up and sword flashing. Merrill brings forth root and rock, funnels the gang lackeys into their path. Hawke is still smiling as she brings up her hand, and bandits rise with it. A fist, moving downward and the bandits slam to the ground. Groaning, dazed and bruised, easily finished off. Their leader, the coward, hangs in the back. Moving around cover, setting loose his arrow. This one finds its target, and Fenris hisses as it buries itself into the soft flesh of his shoulder. This, this is what gives Hawke pause.

Her head turning so quickly to see him, the arrow he’s tugging at. The line of her jaw sets, and the frown deepens with fury. Whirling back, and she reaches out. She pulls the coward forward, the bow slipping out his hands as she drags him roughly with an unseen hand. “Ferelden bitch,” he spits at her from where he lies, beneath her.

“Yes,” she says as she sinks the bladed edge into his breast. A slow wheeze, a pained exhale, and the last of the Dog Lords are snuffed out. Lowtown streets, safe again, thanks to Hawke. Fenris casts the arrow to the ground, looking up just in time to see Hawke hurrying towards him.

“It’s nothing,” he says even as she puts a hand over the wound. Blood warm, spilling over her fingers.

“None of that now,” she says softly, meant for only his ears, “tell me how bad it really is.” It aches to give even a twitch of his fingers. He lets the sword rest easy in his other hand, as he cannot carry it in the other. His ears flatten and she only flickers a smile when she sees it. “I see. I can heal some of it now, but Anders will need to get the finer parts of it. Are you ready?” Catching her gaze, the gentle blue, and he nods. The warmth seeps back into his body, put there by her magic. Flesh stitching itself back together, pain slowly dulling.

“You were right,” she says as she pulls her hand back, “I should have been more careful. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head.

“No, it was my fault. I was not fully paying attention.”

“Fenris, really, no, I should have –”

“Oh for the Maker’s sake,” Aveline says, “are you two sorry lovebirds going to be done anytime soon or are we going to stand out here all night?” Hawke flashes Fenris a grin before turning to the others.

“Sorry Avey.” Fenris watches the way she laughs when Aveline rolls her eyes, and the tips of his ears burn red.


	72. Partners (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Great! So I couldn’t help but wonder... The last prompt felt like Hawke wouldn’t be getting his hands on the herbs, and that he’d be in constant pain. How would he manage to go through the fade and then face the Nightmare? Would his fears be if him unable to continue? That he would just slow he people around him down? Will he want to stay in the fade because of the pain, thinking that better him, a damaged person, than a person the inquisition would really need? That got long. Sorry!

A shadow, at the corner of his vision. A walking mirage, one that flickers when he looks in its direction. Fluttering, flittering, and Hawke can’t quite see what it is. Not until they move closer, over rock and cluttered path, to find a river of water. If it could be counted as water. Across the pebbled shore, there he stands. Hawke knows it isn’t him, but it still aches. Fenris, just out of reach, looking lost. Holding arms around himself, shifting from foot to foot. Looking around at his surroundings and then, at Hawke. They lock eyes, stare at each other. Until Hawke bitterly closes his eyes, and turns away.

The specter of him follows, haunts him. Part of Hawke wants to apologize to it. Whatever the demon hopes to accomplish by showing him Fenris, it only pushes him forward. He plants his staff as he moves, uses it like a walking stick. Leans on it more than he usually wood, climbs the path with a grimace. Following behind the rest of them, the Inquisitor and their crew, under the pretense of guarding their backs. Truthfully, he wants none of them to look behind. Easier when the demon spawn come, when they fight. He can simply stand still, let the others flit around him.

As they talk to the spirit of a Divine that once was, Hawke rubs his brow. Leaning against the rock, half sitting. Trying to ignore the deep throb in his bones, between his joints. The rolling red that spreads through his body, makes his legs tremble. He guards their backs. He walks behind. The distance between them slowly grows and still that ghost haunts him. Fenris, walking just out of reach, watching him. Hands clasped behind his back, tilting his head, frowning at Hawke’s struggle. Maker, it’s so like him. Hawke takes a deep breath, forges ahead, and tries to close the distance. It distracts him from the shadows growing at his feet.

The fears, the despair, all the little things of this nightmarish fade. They feel Hawke and feast. Tiny gnawing teeth at the edges of his brain and Hawke doesn’t know. The Inquisitor consults with Solas, speaks with Cassandra. Protected by Sera’s arrows, guided by the bright Divine. And Hawke, Hawke is alone. He turns his head, looks at Fenris who isn’t Fenris. Standing behind, just like he is. Hawke rubs his eyes. He’ll always be behind, stuck by Hawke’s side. And when Hawke grows old? How long could he drag Fenris down with him? What right did he have to chain him like this? Hawke lets his hand fall back to his side.

He’s doing it again, the thing Fenris always scolds him for. Making decisions for them, based on him. _Partners_ , Fenris had told him once, _we face things together_. Fenris likely knows what the future holds. Hawke certainly does. And yet, not once has Fenris wavered. Hawke has no right to waver now. Hawke forces himself to stand straight, rolls his shoulders back. Leaning against the staff only slightly, but uses this crutch to push himself forward. He is weakened but he is not weak, and the pain has not made him stronger but he is strong, and it does not define him. He has faced darkspawn and demon alike, slain dragons, faced an Arishok, saved a city. He has done much and he will do more, and Hawke takes a step forward.


	73. Asking (Fenris and Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: A prompt request, if that’s alright. “Asking for help doesn’t make you weak.” I would love to see Varric or Sebastian talking to Fenris about asking for help. I realized, recently, that I never learned to ask for help. In my house, it meant declaring I wasn’t capable; wasn’t good enough. But with decent and compassionate people, asking is a way of being vulnerable and being vulnerable is how you connect with people and build trust.

Sebastian takes a seat beside him, mirrors the way he is. Hands clasped in his lap, feet planted, head tilted slightly upwards. The only difference being that while Fenris keeps his eyes closed, Sebastian keeps them open. Looking at the face of Andraste, the kaleidoscope of colors filtered through glass and the smoke from the candles. Warm in the light of it all, the softer scent of incense hanging in the air. For Sebastian, it is utterly familiar. He barely registers the beauty of it anymore. “I’ve caught you,” he says as he leans over slightly, “now you can’t deny coming here.” The only indication that Fenris heard him is the slightly harder exhale, the shortest sigh, and Sebastian smiles.

Sebastian shakes his head as he looks down, at his own knees. At Fenris’s and he can see that his hands are locked so tightly, knuckles white. “If I may – why have you come?” Sebastian asks it in almost a whisper, gently, kindly.

“I needed the quiet,” Fenris tells him. Yes, the Chantry is familiar to him. For Fenris, however, it is utterly different. In all the years he’s known him, he’s never known his mansion to change. Still the same curtains, the same desks, the same dust, the same solitude. That sort of silence can be loud, so breathtakingly loud.

“I see,” Sebastian says. “You know – you could have asked for me. If you are having trouble with something, anything, you could speak to me about it.” At this, Fenris cracks an eye open, turns his head only slightly towards him.

“You sound like Hawke,” he grumbles. Sebastian laughs, earning himself a glare from the group of sisters that pass in silent prayer. Covering his mouth with his hand, and Fenris lets the stiff line of his shoulders relax. Blinking, taking in the light, watching Sebastian smile.

“It doesn’t even have to be me,” he tells him, “there are many kind sisters. Many ears which are willing to listen, offer comfort.”

“I don’t need their pity,” Fenris says.

“It isn’t pity. You’ve accomplished so much on your own.” Fenris looks away, his ears flattening and frowning into his lap. Hands still clasped tight, fingers bruising into skin. “More than any other could possibly endure. There is no shame in asking for help,” Sebastian says. “You have many friends who want to help. In any way you need. Hawke and I included.” Sebastian shifts, leaning against the pew in front of him, putting a hand on Fenris’s shoulder.

“You’re a good man. A brave man. We all know what you’re capable of. But you no longer have to face it on your own,” Sebastian says. Fenris looks up, lets his hands relax. Balling them into fists, back out again, flat against his thighs. Searching his face for some answer to a question he hasn’t asked and Sebastian only smiles. Fenris nods slowly.

“I would – enjoy some company for dinner. If you are available,” he says. Sebastian gives his shoulder a friendly squeeze.

“I would be delighted,” he says.


	74. Endure (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: eyyy bb, “People are always saying they would die for their love, they would kill for their love. Me? I’m willing to live for you, to bring life into this world with you.” for cullavellan or 85 for alistair x warden please?

In an unused hallway, rubble still upon the floor and the torch unlit, Cullen puts his hand against the wall. Doubling over, his other hand clutching at his skull. Jaw clenched, eyes squeezed closed. The song beats the loudest drums inside his head, a rhythm unending. A cacophony of noise that pounds against his eyelids, stabs against his temples. It reverberates down his spine, rumbles through his bones. Sinking into muscle and flesh, and his skin seems almost fire. His legs tremble and it takes all his strength not to simply fold to his knees. Instead, he simply lets himself sink down, sitting against the wall, tipping his head back.

Rubbing his eyes, pressing at them hard enough for the stars in his sight to burst. Sighing as he pulls up his knees, lets his arms rest upon them. Looking at the cobwebs up on the ceiling, and he thinks he can almost see the specter of his pain at the edges of his vision. It beats, beats, beats, pulsing through him as steadily as the beat of his heart. Letting himself fall over, resting on his side, his head against the cool stone of the floor. Closing his eyes once again and what would others think of him if they saw him like this? The Commander of the Inquisition, curled up on the ground like a child.

He wonders what the point of it is. He could serve more effectively if he were still taking the lyrium. A force to be reckoned with, able face the Venatori more completely. Instead he has the pain, the dreams, _you can endure this._ Standing before him in his office and she had put a hand so gently on his chest. A nod of approval, gentle encouragement. Cullen opens his eyes. Dust and dirt on the cobblestone, and he forces himself to sit up. Forces himself to his feet. He knows what happens to the older Templars. He does not want that for her. For himself.

He clears his throat as he enters the war-room, and they look in his direction. “Sorry for my late arrival,” he says, as he takes his place. Lavellan tilts her head, looks at him with a confused raise of an eyebrow. Reaching out, brushing the dust from the side of him. As Leliana and Josephine put their heads together, she leans towards him.

“Is everything alright?” She asks it so quietly, meant for only him. Her ears flattened back, concern in the downturn of her lips. She lets her hand rest over his. He smiles briefly.

“Everything is fine,” he says, “now.” 


	75. Proving (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I think I'm falling in love with you" for Zevxf!warden? A Mahariel too (but I'm not picky whatever warden floats ur boat)

Alistair and Zevran sit on the sidelines, in the cheering ground, both of them with their arms crossed on the bannister. Watching the fight move back and forth with a neutral expression, and Zevran moves his arm to rest his chin in the palm of his hand. Tapping his other hand against the stone of the bannister, looking at the way the Warden moves. The spear in one hand, shield in the other, and she steps quickly. Blocking the sword, stabbing forward. Driving the dwarf she faces ever back, ever back, until she takes a running leap and lands a hit, spear piercing his shoulder.

Alistair cheers support, Zevran does not. He watches the way she paces, wolf facing prey, with a determined frown, and the arrow of her _vallaslin_ pointing ever downwards. Hair braided away from her face, wound and bound, ears flat in concentration. There’s blood on her face and Zevran sighs. She’s beautiful, in every possible way. They send three to face her this time but while Alistair frets, Zevran doesn’t worry. She is more than a match for any who dare face her in the Proving.

There’s a damnable softness in him now, and she exists at its very center. She rages forward, kicks the legs out from under one. Spinning the spear around, bashing in the face of another with the shield. She stands, triumphant, breathing heavy, the blood dripping off the edge of her spear. He knows what to call it, this softness, although he dare not say the words. Saying them would mean admitting it and admitting it would make it real. Down in the Proving arena, she turns her head, scans the crowd. She finds him among all the rest, and grins.

They give her a room for the night. Better than the inn they had booked, with a much larger bed. She sits at the very edge of it, struggles with the lacings at her boots. Zevran kneels down before her, replaces her fumbling hands with his. Easily pulling them apart, pulling the boot off her foot. Moving to the next, doing the same, kissing her knee. Hand at her ankle and moving upwards just as he does. Holding her thigh as his other hand finds her cheek, as his lips find hers. Falling backwards together, and she surrenders beneath him.

He kisses her a little deeper, far more savagely than usual, as her hands pull at his tunic. He leans back, allows it to slip off of him. Looking down at her, and she looks up at him. Her eyes, so bright and focused, the grin still deadly on her lips. Blood still on her cheeks. He looks at her and thinks, and knows, he is falling in love with her. She reaches upwards, a hand on his shoulder, pulls him back down to her. 


	76. Good Enough (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “Am I not good enough for you” for fenhawke please and thank you

She is half sitting up, only one leg covered by the blanket. Leaning against the headboard, a book in her hands. Her other leg is bent, knee in the air, foot pressing against the mattress. She turns the page, the smallest sound in the silence. The window is cracked open, the sheer curtains sway in the breeze. Sunlight streams through, the birds chirp and Fenris lies with his head on her belly. Between her legs, her book resting against the top of his head. His fingertips gently trace the curve of her, underneath that loose fitting tunic, against her hip.

“Fenris?” She asks, and he does not bother to open his eyes. A simple hum of acknowledgement, telling her that he’s listening. His feet hang off the end of the bed, and he knows that Barks sleeps somewhere on the floor beneath them. The slobbering kisses his toes had received earlier was answer enough for that. “Will you still love me when I’m fat?” He snorts amusement as Hawke puts aside her book. Resting it on the empty pillow beside her, threading fingers through his hair.

“I’ll be all grey and fat and I’ll have stretch marks –”

“You already have stretch marks,” Fenris mumbles against her belly. He smiles at the sharp gasp.

“I see. You’re trying to tell me that I’m already not good enough for you,” she says, folding her arms, pretending to pout, feigning hurt. Fenris is chuckling as he shifts, sitting cross legged with her legs over his. He laughs bright and happy, wisps of white hair drifting over long dark lashes. Wearing a shirt three sizes too big, slipping off his shoulder. His ears twitch with his laughter, and she loves how much he loses himself in it, whereas he would have stopped himself before. A full smile, open mouth, cheeks pink and eyes half closed. He raises a hand, cannot cover the sound.

“Hawke,” he says, on the move again. Prowling forward, over her, his hands pressing into the mattress as he tilts his head, presses a kiss to her cheek. “I will always love you.” She wraps arms around his waist, twists them over, laughing as he’s startled by the press of the book against his face.  


	77. In The End (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "is this the end? After everything we've been through?" Angst with a happy ending? Your choice of OTP but maybe within Dragon Age? YOU DA BEST 

Dorian leans back in his chair, sets down the quill. Rubbing the space between his brows, the fading candlelight softly behind closed eyes. It’s late, far too late, and he can’t remember the last time he slept properly. Perhaps it was in Orlais, or maybe Skyhold. Stretching out cramped legs, arms above his head and he swears his back cracks in three places. Reaching out, over the papers, the ink, the letters of importance, to something far better. Dorian picks up the wooden halla, one of many that line his desk, brings it close. The smile quirks at the edges of his lips, a fleeting thing.

So easy to picture Mahanon, hunched in the window sill, with a block of wood and knife in his hands. Those brows of his, pointed in concentration. Twisting the knife to careful edges, bringing out the softest detail. Dorian runs a finger over delicate horns, the perfectly crafted face. He sets the halla back on his desk, on those papers, his work, and slouches in his chair. Pulling the amulet from beneath his tunic, turning it over and over in his hands. He’s tried talking through it, waiting for Mahanon’s answer. All he’s gotten is a week of silence.

He thought he could manage the distance, the time apart. When Mahanon would invite him to Skyhold, Dorian would agree… and then delay, and delay, and delay. There never seemed to be the right time. On top of Dorian forbidding him to come to Tevinter, well, he supposes any would get tired of it. Closing his eyes, pressing the amulet to his lips. He’ll have to write him properly. Demand an answer. Better to know than to be lost in, whatever this is. Dorian opens his eyes at the shouting echoing through the hallways.

Moving quickly to his feet, grabbing his staff. The other Magisters never tire of the attempts on his life, it seems. “You will declare yourself!” His steward’s voice is loud, distinct.

“I already told you who I am,” another voice replies, and Dorian nearly swallows his heart, “it’s not my fault you don’t believe me.” Barking echoes in the hallway, and as Dorian stands on the landing, sees him, everything in him simply stops. Mahanon turns, and his hair is longer somehow, but still in that wild bun. _Vallaslin_ too familiar, a cloak around his shoulders. There’s a laughing grin on his face, pushing the steward out of the way as he runs up the stairs.

“Dorian,” he says breathlessly, reaching upwards, taking his face in his hands. Dorian can taste the smile on his lips, as the staff clatters out of his hands. Mahanon is still one step below him, and Dorian’s hands tight around his arms. Holding him as though he isn’t real, eyes still wide as he breaks the kiss. Reaching for one of Mahanon’s hands, finding it wooden and foreign. “Dagna made it for me. She crafted special ruins for me with Vivienne’s help. I can use my bow again, thank the creators.”

“How – how are you here?” Dorian asks, as he waves away the steward. A large dog is circling their feet, sniffing Dorian’s robes.

“You said I couldn’t come because I couldn’t defend myself. Now I can,” Mahanon tells him. “Did you really think I was going to stay in Skyhold forever? You’re hopeless without me.” Dorian breaks into startled laughter, crushes the kiss against his lips.


	78. Migraines (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I currently have a horrible migraine, could you write zev helping noya deal with a crippling migraine, pretty please?

“Are you looking at everyone like that?” She’s slouched in the chair, legs stretched out, elbows planted on the armrest. Chin close to her chest, and he can feel the daggers in her glare, the irritation in the way she rubs at her temples. Quick things he notices – her papers untouched, the curtains closed and the chair turned away from even the hint of light. “No wonder they were so eager to send me in their place. You have frightened every servant in Amaranthine, I think,” Zevran says. He sets the plate of food down on her desk, kneels down before her and smiles. Touching her knee gently, leaning forward and kissing the other.

“I have a headache,” she says flatly. More than that, but she thinks he might already know. He chuckles under his breath, shakes his head and rises to his feet.

“Sit up properly, _amora_ ,” he says. She does as he asks, ignoring the pounding behind her eyelids. The worst kind of music, infernal drums, beating their sticks against the inside of her skull. Painful enough that it makes even the thought of food sickening, the idea of moving impossible. “Close your eyes.” That, at least, is easy.

His hands are light in her hair, fingertips pressing lightly against her head. Circling at her temples, sweeping against the nape of her neck. Gentle pressure, an easy rhythm. Patient with it, and he seems to find every point of pressure. He finds the drums and one by one, he casts them into silence. Easier to focus on his ministrations than the pain, the soft humming at his lips. Noya links her hands over her belly, and lets her shoulders relax. Zevran smiles, kisses the crown of her head.


	79. Winter (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A birthday gift for a friend

“I don’t know how you can stand it,” he says. His arms are wrapped around himself, pulling the cloak tightly. Frowning miserably, his breath fogging in the air. The first snow of the season, a chill to match, and Zevran longs for the warm sands of Antiva. The clear blue of the beaches, skin drinking in the sun. Thinking of it only makes this worse. Whirling to look at Surana standing beside him, and he completely unaware of how cold it actually is. “Darkspawn, winter, best to tell me now what else is wrong with Ferelden.” Surana raises his eyebrows, chuckles under his breath, and shakes his head.

Zevran can feel the tips of his ears burning, and he knows that if he could see them, they would be bright red. He has no doubt his frozen cheeks are much the same. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Surana shrugs off the backpack from his shoulders. “And to think that winter’s only just begun,” he says, much to Zevran’s dismay. He gives a long, drawn out and dramatic groan as he rolls his eyes towards the heavens. Holding out his hand, watching as a snowflake lands in his palm. It melts from the warmth of him, and Zevran is quick to pull his hand back to safety.

Surana pulls out a long scarf, moves to stand in front of Zevran. He’s smiling, in that way he does. Within him, he carries the spring. Waking winter from its slumber, daisies buried under snow. He brings something new, something bright, a chance to start again. That tight hold Zevran has around himself automatically relaxes in his presence, basking in his warmth, and he allows Surana to drape the scarf around him. Wrapping it round and round again, comfortable and warm. Zevran closes his eyes as he buries his face in it. They quickly snap back open, however, at the hat.

Surana wedges it on his head, laughing as he drags it over half of Zevran’s face. “Really _amor_?” Stubbornly keeping his arms crossed, refusing to fix it. Surana covers his mouth with his hand as he laughs, and for a few moments, he is tempted to leave him like that. Instead, he reaches out, and adjusts it for him. Making sure his ears are covered, smoothing away the stray wisps of hair. Leaning forward, and he presses a kiss to the crown of his head. A rather motherly gesture. “I am not a child,” Zevran grumbles.

“Then why you insist on acting like one because of a little bit of cold is beyond me,” Surana tells him. Zevran opens his mouth, ready with a retort, but the words die on his tongue as Surana puts hands on his face. Thumbs moving softly over his cheekbones, and there’s magic in his touch. Warmth that blooms from the tips of his fingers, the palm of his hand, spills down into Zevran’s very bones. It’s a contented heat, flickering firelight, lovers wrapped up in bed. Zevran relaxes, closes his eyes. Surana so very gently tilts Zevran’s face upwards, and kisses his lips. Zevran opens his cloak, his arms, pulls Surana close.  


	80. Abyss (Varric x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could I request something shippy and sweet for Varric and Hawke (any gender Hawke). I think it's a crime that we can't romance the dwarf...

Hawke puts her hand against a pillar, looks up in wonder. Head tilting back, wisps of hair falling across her face. Mouth opening slightly, eyes wide as she sees how high it goes. Walking forward carefully, still looking upwards, turning round and round to see all of it. Varric watches with a smile on his face as she almost trips, steadies herself, looks around to see if anyone saw her stumble. Red in her cheeks as she catches his gaze, whirling around. Scratching the back of her head as she continues forward, hurries her steps to chase after Aveline.

She had given up more gold than she’d ever seen, just to join the expedition. She probably didn’t expect to be stuck down here, betrayed by Bartrand. Hell, he certainly didn’t see it coming. They make camp near a cliff side, full of rubble and rock, an abyss that spills into an underground lake. While the other sleep, he takes one of their last candles, and the maps. By the flickering light, he tries to chart where they’ve been, what they’ve seen. He barely notices Hawke sit down beside him. He does notice the brighter light.

A flame in the palm of her hand, and he can properly see the mess he’s made. Jumbled ink lines over parchment, his knee not having been the best thing to hold it properly. “I was never a good artist,” Varric sighs as he puts the papers to the side. Rubbing his face with his hands, and Hawke smiles.

“Well, when we get out, you’ll have plenty of time to practice. Put illustrations in your books, that’ll really help them sell,” she says. He snorts laughter, crosses his arms and leans back. Hawke turns her hand, palm facing downwards, and the light extinguishes itself. The sound of the water below echoes against the stone, and the twinkling crystals above shine like distant stars.

“If we weren’t stuck, I might think it’s rather pretty,” she says.

“But we are stuck, so it’s shit,” he says.

“Right,” she laughs as she mirrors him, leans back as well. A few moments spent in silence and Hawke turns. One hand on the rock that she’s sitting on, the other reaching for him. Resting on his arm, and he turns to her. “I’m sorry about Bartrand.” She says it so softly. “I can’t imagine… I’m so sorry.” Varric sighs.

“Yeah, well, he was always a dick,” he says, and her hand squeezes gently.

“At least he isn’t your only family anymore. Anders will be heartbroken if you don’t write him into your will,” she says.

“It’ll be hard to let my lawyer know of the changes. You don’t think Darkspawn send mail, do you?” She smiles, and her hand travels up his arm. Putting her palm against his cheek, and it holds his face there as she leans forward. A gentle ghosting thing, her lips against his other cheek. Feeling her breath, her body against his.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she murmurs as she leans back again, moves to stand. He watches her as she puts hand on the rock, looks out over the lake in wonder. Walking forward carefully, looking at where she puts her feet. Varric smiles, puts fingertips against his cheek.


	81. Language (Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a friend

Manon learns the language. Carefully spoken words, constructing sentences. In her mouth, on her tongue, something only they can speak. An understanding of him, of them, of something they might become. Specific communication, written and spoken, without ink and without sound. It’s in the touch, the palm of their hands. It’s in the glance, the gaze that meets gaze. It’s the movement, the walking forward, the spine of him, the heart of her. They craft it together and think they might have known it forever. She speaks it with her hand on his back, he listens with his arm around her shoulder. He speaks it in his fingers curling against her cheek, she listens with the press of her lips against his.

In years after, Anders learns silence. It shapes slowly. He distorts certain sentences, breaks other letters. He’s putting together words in a different tongue, but it’s still a language she recognizes, understands. There is so much language in her to give, and she thinks her words might call him home. She doesn’t know yet, that he’s forgotten how to listen. The language runs in her blood, in her bones, and for him, the words become harder to speak.

Years and years, letters written, words wasted and it breaks. The warmth of fire licks at her cheeks as she turns to face him. It’s in the touch, his hand pulling away from hers. It’s in the glance, his gaze that moves away from hers. It’s the movement, the walking away, the fallen shoulders of him, the ache of her. He speaks and she realizes she no longer understands. A language twisted, tainted, and she doesn’t know it. Not anymore.


	82. Reading (Varric and M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I absolutely love your writing! Do you think you could duo something where a blind inquisitor/reader or whatever asks Varric to read them one of his stories? Idk why, but I suddenly got the idea in my head and now I'm completely in love with it!

They get used to the sound of the staff tapping against the cobblestones, the fingertips that trail against the wall. The aura around him, of peace and light, the magic that helps him navigate, helps him heal. It’s not uncommon to find a few soldiers and scouts trailing around him, basking in the gentle warmth of him, listening to his soft spoken words. Bruises heal in his presence, anxiety goes to rest. It’s that which reaches him first. Easing in his chair, feeling it roll over him. “Varric,” he says, “I have a new book. Will you read to me?”

“You don’t have to ask every time,” he says, but the Inquisitor only smiles. He holds the book out, waits for Varric to take it. “Which one is it – you’re joking.” The Inquisitor chuckles under his breath.

“Cassandra recommended it to me,” he says.

“There are much better books out there,” Varric tells him.

“But I want to read this one,” he says. Varric sighs, gives up, and gives in. He lets him put his hand on his shoulder, guide him to their reading nook. They sit back against back. Letting his head fall back, resting on Varric’s shoulder. Closing his eyes as he listens to his voice. He loves the way Varric tells stories. He gives each character a different voice, the passion for the words bleeding through. Smiling as he relays Hawke’s exploits, a smile in his voice. Fond memories, the Inquisitor helping him look back so that he can look forward.

After each session, Varric finds his aches eased, mind calmed. He lets him hold onto the book. A copy of his own novel, and Varric almost wants to laugh. Instead he puts pen to paper, smiles as he begins to write the Inquisitor’s story.


	83. Appreciation (Dorian and Fenris)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hi! Prompt idea: Fenris meeting Dorian for first time. The background is as your liking. Bye! Love u!

It’s impossible not to notice him. That head of white hair, the lyrium in his skin. Half the Templars can feel him as he passes, and the mages turn their heads at this strange source of power. He seems rather nonchalant with it all, not noticing or not caring about the eyes given to him. Hawke has certainly brought a strange collection of people with her, and it’s not Fenris who’s the strangest. Really, he shouldn’t have let Cassandra talk him into reading Varric’s _Tale of the Champion_. Dorian’s eyes lift from the pages of his book as Fenris passes where he sits.

The elf is in the library almost every day, devouring book after book. Dorian supposes it’s a distraction, while Hawke is busy recovering from her time in the Fade. The book slams shut, and Dorian rests it against the leg of his chair. Rising to his feet, leaning against the shelf next to him and Fenris barely spares him a glance. “I’ve been warned about you, you know,” Dorian says.

“And I you,” Fenris tells him as he reads the back of a book, finds it dissatisfactory, puts it back on the shelf. “I’ve been told you are an altus, not a magister.”

“Very right. I’ve been told you might put your hand through my chest if I were.” Fenris snorts at his words, flips through the pages of the next book. “Although Hawke and Varric very much denied that possibility.”

“People read Varric’s book and think I am only one thing,” he says, finally raising his head, looking at Dorian as he speaks. “They latch onto a single aspect of what is written and forget I am a person.”

“The perils of being famous,” Dorian says. He finds that laughter comes easy to Fenris, shaking his head at Dorian’s words.

“I suppose.”

“I do hope that one thing Varric wrote about is true,” he says. Fenris raises his eyebrows.

“Oh?”

“I hear you have good taste in wine,” Dorian says, crosses his arms and leaning forward, speaking the words in a low whisper. Fenris smirks, puts the book back on the shelf, and mimics the way Dorian is standing.

“What sort of wine are we talking about?”

“I’ve managed to smuggle in a very fine vintage of Aggregio Pavali and I need someone to,” Dorian thinks for a moment, trying to find the right word, “ _appreciate_ it with me.” Fenris smiles.

“I can do that.”


	84. Some Kind of Cure (F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you do the warden/Zev finally finding the cure for the taint?

A mirror without reflection, showing a place that should not be. Standing in the deep and in the dark, and how familiar it all feels. The end, back at the beginning. She puts her hand against the mirror and feels the call beat within her blood. It calls her home. Pushing her hand through and she meets little resistance. The key has already been turned, the lock opened. Stepping through the eluvian, to a place not on any earthly plane. The Fade has always felt different. Making her way past floating rock and greener sky, to the door. The throne waits inside.

Chains and chained, flowers the brightest orange and blue. Long grass at the feet, moss over steps. The vines curl and coil around the throne, the one who sits upon it, and the shackles on her arms and legs. The flowers bloom in her skin, petals bleed from her lips. The horns twist and curl, around her head like a crown, embedded in the throne. Her eyes do not open, even as Mahariel approaches. “Halla mother,” she says, “I have crossed oceans to find you.”

Only then do eyelashes flutter. Eyes that are not eyes, like the mosaics on long forgotten walls. Mahariel does not kneel. “ _Garas quenathra_?” There are vines of her own, veins like black, the taint having taken most of her but not yet her mind. Mahariel wraps hands around her own neck, and there’s some understanding in the way this old god blinks.

“You bring sickness into this place,” Ghilan’nain says. “The plague of Elgar’nan and Geldauran.” Maharial climbs the steps to the throne, looks at the pathetic figure there. A white dress that might have been fine once, now dusted with mold and time. Branches hold her down, pierce skin, and bleed her dry. “I pulled this very sickness from my beloved. Now, you want me to do the same for you.”

“I do,” Mahariel says.

“There is a price.”

“I will pay it.”

“You do not yet know the cost.”

“I will pay it.” The laughter rolls like water over broken stone, rumbles inside her. Ghilan’nain leans forward, horns cracking in the movement, chains rattling. Looking up at Mahariel, and the mosaic shifts from yellow, to blue, to red and black.

“You will carry me from this place,” Ghilan’nain says, “and together we shall find the one who has done this to me.” Chains shatter, break, as Ghilan’nain surges forward, wraps arms around Mahariel and together they fall backwards. Vines that find vines, petals on her tongue. Gasping as she takes in the ghost of this god, heaving with sick as the soul settles. The body that once was fades into ash, and the throne crumbles. Mahariel puts a hand against her chest. Rising to her feet, tilting her head to the sky that isn’t a sky. The blight retreats, the taint disappears.

“ _Ir tel’him_.” Mahariel closes her eyes. With a new purpose, she turns, heading towards the eluvian. Heading home. Zevran will be so surprised when she shows him the magic she now possesses. A song sings sweetly in her head, so different than that of the calling. Ghilan’nain sings of vengeance and Mahariel listens.


	85. In the Spring (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: moulin rouge prompts: ❛ the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is to love and be loved in return. ❜ for fenhawke please!

In the spring, he sits on the grass. Cross-legged in the garden, the book open in his hands. The windows are open, sheer curtains moving lightly in the breeze. The wind chimes hang over the door, sway and make music together with the birds that perch on the roof. She walks with bare feet, kneels down behind him. Putting her arms over his shoulders, resting her head beside his as she holds him. He smiles as he reaches up, puts a hand at her wrist. She peppers his cheek with kisses, moves to lie down beside him. She covers her face with a hat, and he rests his hand on her leg. His finger moves in slow circles against her skin as he reads.

In the summer, she sleeps on her stomach, one hand fisted into her pillow. Hair wisps over her neck, her shoulders, and the sunlight streams across her back. He lies on his side, smiles softly at the sight of her. Reaching out, fingertips tracing the edges of her shoulder blades. Connecting the space between freckles which dot her back like stars. She is warm, under the sun, the peace of dreaming, but even more than that. A privilege, to bask in her warmth. She smiles, rolls to her side, moves to face him. Her palm against his face, thumb moving over his cheekbone. Shifting forward, her lips pressed to his.

In the fall, they walk the market hand in hand. Sharing freshly baked cookies as they make their way to the docks, sit on the edge of the pier. She dangles her legs over the water, her shoes resting beside her. She reaches into the bag that he holds, takes out another cookie. Resting her head on his shoulder, and together they watch the sun set. Talking quietly as it does, about this and that, little things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else but mean the world to each other.

In the winter, she naps on the couch in front of the fire. He pulls the blanket up and over her, makes sure it’s covering her completely. Brushing back the hair that crosses her face, tucking it behind her ear. He sits on the floor by the couch, puts his wine glass on the coffee table. Reaching for the book, opening it and placing the bookmark beside him. Sometime later, she stirs although he does not realize it, not until she reaches out. Fingers playing with the soft curls of hair at his nape, a smile on her face. In the years that pass with her, in the years yet to come, Fenris finds peace with Hawke.

In the spring, he sits on the grass.


	86. A Promise (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: from prompt list #1: “I just want you to be happy.” PS I LOVE U & YOUR WRITING THANKS QUEEN

He wakes with it. Early in the morning, curled up in a ball, and he knows. He remembers no dream, but some nightmare still holds him. Its claws on his shoulders, arms wrapped around his chest. A sickly shadow that seeps inside his chest, spreads by the beat of his heart. He squeezes his eyes closed, rolls over into the pillow. He doesn’t want to leave the bed, but neither can he stay. He had volunteered his services today. He tells himself it will be fine. The irritation still rolls off his shoulders like rain, the melancholy clouds in his head.

He stands apart from the others because he doesn’t want to be alone, but neither does he want to be a part of the group. It requires energy he doesn’t have, patience that fades too quickly. Isabela pokes quick comments in his direction, and it takes one pointed stare for Merrill to leave him alone. As they walk the streets, Hawke looks over her shoulder, makes sure he’s still behind them. They dispatch the gang fairly quickly, collect their coin even quicker. Fenris rubs the space between his brows as Isabela and Merrill screech laughter, as Isabela hoists the elf into her arms and carries her off.

“If you do not require anything more, I –”

“Fenris,” Hawke says quietly, holding out her hands before her. Palms upwards, smiling at him. “May I see your hands?” He stares at her, down at her hands. A few quick moments of silence, before he lets his palms rest against hers. Her smile widens, and the tremble in his hands slowly eases.

“If you don’t feel like coming with us on a job, you don’t have to,” Hawke says, “I know what you’re going to say – that you said you would come. But we’re friends Fenris. If a day doesn’t work out for you, for whatever reason, we will understand. I’ll understand. You never have to explain why.” One of her hands moves from his, and she holds it up like a fist, save for her standing pinky. She raises her eyebrows, gestures for him to the same. She links their pinky fingers together quickly.

“I want you to promise me that the next time you don’t feel like coming, you won’t come. It’s a pinky promise so you aren’t allowed to break it,” she tells him, looking deadly serious. Fenris balks at the childish gesture, but seeing her bite her bottom lip in an effort to remain serious… he chuckles under his breath.

“I promise,” he says. 

“Good,” she says, and she puts a hand against his arm. “And if you don’t want to be alone, you don’t have to be. I’m here.”


	87. Cloaks (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: i'm gonna be a greedy shit and ask for another; our backs tell stories no books have have the spine to carry. ❜ cullavellan pls <3

In his bed, she wears his cloak, and just his cloak. Fur warm around her neck, red fabric draped over her back and chest. Her fingers play with a loose stitch, and she makes a note of it. She will fix it later. Skyhold is mostly empty now, the Inquisition dissolved. It’s quiet now, and she finds she misses the voices, the noise, the cacophony of an army no longer needed. Or at least, thought so. She, and so few others, know what waits ahead. Her fiddling stops, her arm falls into her lap. The only hand she has left. It takes her sometimes, exactly what she has lost for something she never wanted.

The platter of food appears in the ladder hole, skids across the floor as he pushes it forward. He appears up the ladder, with a piece of bread in his mouth. She laughs, and although she misses the noise, it gives them a privacy they never had before. The ability for Cullen to walk Skyhold in only trousers and get them breakfast. “It’s bloody cold,” he tells her.

“If only you had a cloak,” she says, as he picks up the platter. Placing it beside her with a smile, tilting her head upwards with a gentle finger under her chin.

“Someone stole it from me,” he says.

“Mhmm, they sound terrible,” she slyly smiles as he leans towards her.

“She’s not so bad,” he murmurs against her lips. She still smiles as he kisses her, as his hands thread through her hair, fingertips against the shell of her ear. Holding her face in his hands, the sound of birds chirping on the roof. It takes her sometimes, exactly what she has gained for something she never wanted. Cullen lounges on the bed beside her, they share food between them and this, this she doesn’t mind.


	88. Away, Alone (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: hey lisa, light of my life, maybe please do "Please don't do this" with pavellan?? 

By now, he thought he’d be used to the way the anchor hungers. The breadth of its greed, the depth of its lust. It’s like lightning in his bones, reaching up his arm, shaking in his hand. Letting the arrow loose on the exhale, and the tremor affects his aim only slightly. Not that it matters much. It bounces helplessly off of the barrier Corypheus hastily throws up with a simple gesture of his hand. The ancient darkspawn snarls, the orb floating beside him, shedding angry red sparks. Lavellan can feel the blood dripping down his nose, tastes the iron on his lips. They’re so close.

Lightning directed down from the orb, catching Iron Bull in the chest. It throws the warrior a hefty distance, smashing into one of the pillars. Lavellan grits his teeth, resists the urge to run to him. A hiss of displeasure from Corypheus as Cole sinks his daggers into his back, and he rips the spirit from his shoulders, casts him to the ground. Moving ever forward, and Lavellan is firing the arrows as fast as he can, ignoring the way the anchor sputters and shudders, desperate to be reunited with the orb. The barrier that Dorian throws up isn’t quite as sturdy as the one Corpypheus had, and the arrows stop as Lavellan hears him cry out behind him.

Corypheus screams frustration as he takes the orb in his hands, disappears into the upper levels. Lavellan rushes over, falls to his knees beside Dorian. “Dorian,” he says, the bow on the ground beside him, his hands on Dorian’s face, “Dorian!” Thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as Dorian coughs, reaches up, his hand squeezing on Lavellan’s arm.

“I’m perfectly fine,” he says weakly. The worry still knots in Lavellan’s brow, the frown of his lips, but he cannot help but look upwards, feel the power being channeled from the orb. The anchor is practically drooling. Yes, they are close, but so is Corypheus.

“I have to go,” Lavellan says, looking back down.

“I’m coming with you,” Dorian says, struggling to rise. Lavellan puts a gentle hand on his chest.

“Help the others,” he says, “I’ll find you after.”

“You can’t go alone,” Dorian says, sitting up, still clinging to him. There’s dirt on his cheek, a bit of blood on his temple. His hair is rightly tousled, his clothes singed with dragon fire. He’s still Dorian, his Dorian, and Lavellan smiles as he leans forward. The kiss is a mess as much as them, desperate in the same way it beats in his chest.

“I’ll be back soon,” Lavellan murmurs against his lips, reaching for his bow.

“Please don’t do this. No, you – bloody bastard – don’t!” But Lavellan is already on his feet, running for the stairs, reaching for an arrow. “Lavellan! _Amatus_!” Dorian shouts after him, palms pressing against cobble, struggling to get up. “Mahanon!” A scream at his back, and Dorian pounds the ground with his fist, watches helplessly as he disappears from sight. 


	89. Doors (Sebastian x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I can't do this without you" for Sebhawke if you write that pairing? (Fenhawke if not!) Tysm if you do :)

She’s never been overly fond of the Chantry. At the very least, she’s never had what she considered a real reason to go inside. Little errands, yes, wholly casual. Never before have the doors made her feel so uneasy, so much dread. She stands at the bottom of the stairs, looks up at those closed doors. Pacing in the courtyard, pressing three fingers to the space between her brows. Others swerve out of her way as she isn’t looking where she’s going, her other hand bruising into her hip. She marches more than walks, and it’s only when hands find her shoulders does she stop.

He smiles, not unkindly, tells her, “they’re waiting for you.”

“I know,” she says, letting her hands fall to her side. Clench, unclench, fingernails biting into her palms. Sebastian’s hands drift on her shoulders, to her arms, moving as though he’s trying to warm her.

“Would you like to sit?” He asks. Not quite so private, standing in the way of everyone like this, but Hawke shakes her head so there they stay.

“No, I,” she struggles with the words, “we should go in.” Slipping from his grasp, marching that same way up the stairs. Staring at the ground, clench, unclench. Standing in front of the doors and there she stops. Sebastian beside her, watching her sadly. Burying a parent is not an easy thing. He knows.

“Hawke –” he forgets whatever he meant to say as she tentatively reaches out. Fingertips touching against his, a hesitant touch. He does the rest, linking their hands together, holding her tightly.

“I can’t do this without you,” she says, looking up at him, and he gives her hand a comforting squeeze. He nods, pushes open the door.


	90. In Dreams (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “I needed you and you weren’t there” Fenris has nightmares about Hawke after she stayed behind in the fade

He doesn’t recognize the field they lie in. He knows the long grass is moving but he cannot feel the wind, and the sound of it seems so far away. He sits up, knees bent, holds his palms outwards. He can see the sun and doesn’t feel its warmth. Hawke sits up beside him. She puts a hand on his back, opens her mouth to say something. He hears the sounds but they make no sense, that distance once again, just like the wind. Her hand moves, takes his in hers. She leans closer to him and she’s saying something again but he cannot _hear_ –

“Hawke,” he says, “I do not understand.” She moves her hands to his face, presses her forehead against his and this, this he does feel. His hands on her bare arms, and she is so cold, it almost hurts to touch. Blue eyes bright and desperate, and he is trying to listen but it’s only echoes. Moving away, trying to read her lips but she’s shaking her head. Her hands fall back to her side, knees moving against her chest. Wrapping arms around her legs, tilting her head to the sky.

Fenris reaches for one of her hands, pulls it back to him. Holding it tightly, pressing it against his chest, and Hawke slowly turns back to him. Her face twists, her chin shakes, and how could he not have noticed the tears on her cheeks? Pouring down her face, sticking to her long lashes. He reaches for her, means to pull her close. She fades like dust between his fingertips, and around him, the grass burns. Startled as he rises to his feet, but the fire doesn’t hurt him. It burns and burns, and he watches it all turn to ash.

In the aftermath, there is only stone. A sky of a different sort, rocks that float in the distance. Before him lies the corpse of some huge creature, a monstrous thing. Spider-like and demonic. He steps backwards, almost trips on the staff that lies there. Looking down, and it is cracked in half, scattered in pieces. As he looks at the splintered wood, he sees it. The last piece of the staff, in her hands. She is unmoving as she lies there, staring up at the strange sky. Fenris kneels down beside her.

Her eyes are glassy and lifeless, her skin grey and cold. There’s blood on her lips, a mouth open in shock. “Hawke?” Reaching over, and his fingertips tremble on her face. She’s so cold. Gentle, as he takes her into his arms, cradles her close. “Hawke?” Crushing her against him, but she doesn’t feel it. He’s still saying her name, but she doesn’t hear it. Pressing his forehead against hers, his thumb moving over her lips, and his hand still shakes.

He wakes in sweat, rolling out of the bed, falling to the floor, the blankets wrapped around his legs. Breathing heavy as his vision swims, as he squeezes his eyes closed. Opening them again, his throat dry and cracked, draped in panic. Closing his eyes again, forcing himself to take a deep breath. As his thoughts clear, he resolves to leave. Go to Skyhold without waiting for her letter. They’ve already been too long without each other. He pushes himself up from the floor. Hawke needs him.   


	91. Losing (Solas x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you maybe do number 43, “I am not losing you again!” for Solavellan? (Love your work by the way ❤️)

It’s only when she stands before him does she understand the brutality of the loss. All they have done, all they have sacrificed, and he still won. He holds the last orb in his hand, means to place it on the pedestal with the others. She looks up at him from where she is, at the bottom of the stairs, and he regards her sadly. Breathing heavily, bruised and bloody, energy spent and mana empty. She feels each ache in her bones keenly, but still she climbs the steps. Moving to stand opposite him, as she has done time and time again, “it’s not too late,” she says, “You don’t have to do this.”

One of his hands leaves the orb, holds it out to her. She hesitates, looking at him, looking at it. Slowly, she puts her hand in his. “It is too late,” Solas tells her softly, “There is no going back from this moment. Instead, I offer you what I should have offered long ago. The chance to stand at my side. Hold the orb with me, and you will be unharmed.” Slowly, he takes the hand that she holds, puts it against the orb. The last time she held one of these, it was to bring down someone corrupted. Someone who thought themselves a god. Who thought their actions were the best for the world. “ _Vhenan_.” Not much has changed.

If it cannot be stopped – Lavellan looks at Solas, and nods. The smile is a relief on his lips, and his tightly held shoulders fall. “I did not want to lose you,” he says. Together, they put the orb with the rest. He had killed the titan under Orlais for this one. Val Royeaux had collapsed, it’s foundation in ruins. She can feel the power humming under her fingertips, and he closes his eyes as it begins to glow. Lavellan keeps her eyes on him. She waits until the last moment. Her hand slips from his, from the orb, and his eyes snap open.

“You lost me a very long time ago,” she tells him. He cries out as he reaches for her, but she is ash by time his hand reaches where she once stood. The veil falls, the Fade asserts its natural order, and Solas stands alone.


	92. Not Everything (Varric x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Aaaaa omg could we get a continuation of hawke and varric?

He sits on the landing while she sits a few steps below him. Her elbows on the steps, tilting her head back to look at him. He takes a sip from the bottle, and she smiles as she sees the dissatisfaction cross his face. “Who thought I’d actually miss the piss from the Hanged Man? I thought at least here their ale would be better,” he says.

“I think you’ve been drinking the terrible stuff for so long that you’ve gotten too used to it,” she says. He snorts a single chuckle, rests the bottle on the stone beside him.

“You’re probably right.”

“I’m always right,” she grins.

“Oh Varric,” he says in a sing-song voice, a poor imitation of her, “They’ll just ask you a few questions and be on their way. Of course they won’t drag you away from Kirkwall and take you across the Waking Sea with them!” Hawke laughs as he gives her a pointed stare, a playful frown. He can’t hold it long though, and he soon laughs along with her.

“You know, the moment I met Cassandra, she told me everything you told her,” Hawke says, “I was surprised to find out it was more than I thought. Is there anything you didn’t tell her?”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her about us,” he says, as he leans down to her. She can taste the ale still on his lips, but more than that, she’s missed the warmth of him. She’s still smiling even as he pulls away.

“I’ve missed you,” she says.

“I missed you too, birdie,” he says. Reaching for a length of her hair, holding it in his hands. Raising it to his lips, pressing a kiss against it. She still smells like lavender, and he wants nothing more than to be back in Kirkwall. With her.


	93. Dog (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “Are you sleeping with them?” Prompt. Anders is jealous over his suspicion that (female) Hawke is with Fenris

It’s something sweet, something careful. She reaches out, her fingertips barely brushing against his hand. Fenris returns it almost shyly, and holds her hand in his. The smile brushes against the edge of his lips and Hawke laughs softly, covers her mouth with her free hand as she looks at him. Happily, adoringly. Anders knows it’s unfair, to hate him for the way she loves him. It’s more than that, of course, it’s always been more than that. It’s the way he walks, thinks, speaks, breathes, and this – this just makes it worse. Isabela’s face ducks in his vision, waves her hand before his eyes.

“Hello? Are we done here?” She points to the still open cut on her leg and Anders shakes his head, focuses his concentration. The healing blossoms in the palm of his hands, magic that seeps its way into her skin. Isabela raises her eyebrows, and she grins. “Awe, are we a little jealous? Not surprising, Hawke is – _unf_ ,” she says as she bites her bottom lip, tilts her head back, presses a hand against her chest. “So is he. Maker, what I wouldn’t give to be in that bedroom at night.”

“We’re done,” Anders snaps as he rises to his feet, brushes the dirt off his knees. Isabela leaps up from the rock where she had been sitting, reaches out and slaps him on the back.

“Don’t worry, you’re not too bad yourself,” she says as she slinks away, sneaks up on Hawke and Fenris. An arm around each of their shoulders and Hawke laughs as Isabela hangs between them. As they walk back to the city, Anders drags behind them. It’s only Hawke who seems to notice, looking over her shoulder. Slowing down to walk beside him, and she smiles.

“Are you okay?” She asks, quietly enough so that the others don’t hear. He doesn’t know how much sleep he got last night. His eyes burn, blood-shot and tired, the irritation rolls off his shoulders. Usually she could sweep it all away, but this –

“Are you sleeping with him?” He asks. She blinks, taken aback.

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” she says slowly.

“He’ll leave you again,” Anders tells her bluntly, “he’s less a man to me than a wild dog.”

“He won’t. You just don’t know him,” Hawke says, the anger rising in her voice.

“I know as much as I’m ever likely to.” Hawke stops and it’s only now that he realizes the others have stopped as well. Isabela with her arms crossed, one hand covering her mouth, thoroughly entertained. Fenris, so proud, his chin high, looking at him condescendingly. He thinks he’s won.

“That’s right, mage,” he says. Anders whirls back to face Hawke, pointing accusingly at Fenris.

“He has let one bad experience color his whole world. Surely you want someone more open-minded?” Fenris is saying something else, but Anders is preoccupied with Hawke, and the way she’s looking at him. The anger in her that fades to disappointment. The thin line of her mouth, the way she turns away from him without a sound. Walking away, putting a hand on Fenris’s arm.


	94. Salt and Sugar (Zevran x F!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Nsfw “Don’t mistake salt for sugar. If he wants to be with you..he will” zevwarden!

“Are you certain you wish to talk about this? I really do not know what to say,” he says quietly. They sit by the stream together, on that log, away from camp. His elbows are planted on his knees, his fingers linked together. He’s staring at the long reeds by the water, the water that pebbles over rock.

“Zevran, if you’re having second thoughts about us, I –“

“No! I… no, this…” He looks at her wide-eyed, shakes his head. Rubbing the space between his brows as he slowly sits up properly, straightens himself as he turns to face her. “I am acting like a child, I realize. I apologize. Let me try to explain.” He reaches out, fingertips against the skin of her knee, just there, where her trousers have ripped.

“An assassin must learn to forget about sentiment,” he says slowly, glancing up at her, “it is dangerous. You take your pleasures where you can, when life is good. To expect anything more would be reckless.” He expects she already knows, what taking their pleasure together meant, at first. He meant to make her find him useful. If he were not – he thought it might have been the same as the Crows. If you are not useful, you are dead. He was sent to _kill_ her, and she had extended her hand. A hand he did not trust. Not at first.

“I thought it was the same between us. Something to enjoy, a pleasant diversion and little more. And yet…” his eyes slip from hers, look at the fingers that roll stray thread together. She puts her hand over his, stills his restless movements.

“Are you saying you love me?” She asks, and he rests his forehead against hers.

“I don’t know. How do you know such a thing? I grew up amongst those who sold the illusion of love, and then I was trained to make my heart cold in favor of the kill. Everything I have been taught says what I feel is wrong,” he tells her. Squeezing his eyes closed as he thinks, as he tries to find the words. Leaning back, brushing away the stray strands that wisp across her face. His fingers curl against her cheek, drop to his lap. “Yet I cannot help it. Lately, I have been nothing but confused. Do you understand me at all?”

This is the moment he fears the most. They have never spoken of what such a relationship might mean. They have taken what they needed from each other, expected nothing more. To lose her would to be – he doesn’t think he could bear it. “Zevran,” she says, pulling one of his hands into hers, “I’m no wiser than you in this area.”

“All I need to know is if there might be some future for us, some possibility of… I do not know what,” he says.

“I don’t know.” Part of her still believes this journey might claim her life. It has taken her from everything she’s ever known, robbed her of so much more. Still, she would not go back, even if she had the choice. “But I know how I feel about you.”

“I still have the earring. I would like to give it to you… as a token of affection. Will you take it?”

“That sounds like a proposal.”

“Not unless you wish it.” Lips pressed against his, an answer wrapped up in the kiss. Opening her mouth to him as she squeezes his hand in hers. She tastes like spice ever familiar to him, a warmth, a heat, a flavor all her own. He misses her as she pulls away, rises to her feet. Standing before him, reaching down to find the edges of her tunic. Slipping it over her head, reaching for the lacings of her trousers. Under the moonlight, she steps out of them, one by own.

“I can’t give you something – normal. I don’t know how we’re going to kill the Archdemon, if we even can, and if we do, I – I don’t know what will happen after. You deserve –” Her mouth is open but no sound comes out, reaching for the words and finding they’ve left her. Zevran stands quickly, takes her face into his hands.

“It does not matter,” he tells her, “I want nothing, only you.” Her fists wind in the back of his tunic as he wraps an arm around her waist, holds her close. This kiss is far more desperately given than the first, and they fight for control of it. His bottom lip between hers, tongue touching against his. A heavy and muffled inhale as they cling to each other, lean into each other, as he traces every bump of her spine.

Her cheeks are flushed as they break apart, as she pulls the tunic over his head. Casting it to the ground beside hers, fingers fumbling with the lacings of his trousers. “ _Amor_ ,” he groans against her lips, as his trousers slip to the ground, as she takes his cock in her hand. He grows harder under her grasp, her careful strokes. He finds her breast with his hand, rolls it underneath his palm. The cool night air prickles against their skin, but there’s a heat between them that cannot be diminished.

She strokes him the way she knows he likes it best, the turn of her wrist, her thumb smearing precum down the base of his cock. He rolls her nipple between his fingers, and he feels her shift from foot to foot impatiently. She’s startled when he breaks the kiss, eyelashes fluttering as he pulls away. Taking each one of her hands in his, pressing a kiss to each knuckle. Smiling at her softly, looking at the way the blush colors her cheeks, floods her chest. Over darkly colored nipples, the curve of her hips. Strong thighs, the curl of hair between them. He finds every scar, every line, every mark, and treasures each and every one.

“You are so beautiful _amor_. I do not think I could love you more,” he tells her. Her answer is her hands squeezing his, closing her eyes as she leans forward. A kiss to one cheek and she moves, a kiss to the other. She moves her hands to his shoulders, slowly guides him down. The ground his cool against his skin, the bark of the log bites into his back. All of it is forgotten as she kneels down over him, a leg on either side of him, her hands still on his shoulders. His hands slip up and down her back, the warm goodness of her skin. Over the roundness of her ass, her thighs, and back upwards.

Her hand tightens on his shoulder as he touches her, a finger running through wet folds. She closes her eyes, tilts her head back as he presses his thumb against her clit. Watching the way she breathes, the way her breasts move, and his cock twitches eagerly, knowing how close they are. She bites her bottom lip as he presses a finger inside her waiting cunt, and she moves to look at him. Bending over, pressing her forehead against his, a kiss to the tip of his nose. She reaches between them, hand around the base of his cock. They breathe together as they masturbate each other, listening to the softly mewling cries, the little grunts and groans.

She peppers his lips with kisses as his fingers slip from her cunt, as she holds his cock steady. His hands against her hips as she slowly lowers herself, takes all of him in. His hands move endlessly, unable to get enough of her. Over thigh and hip and rib and back, breast and belly, at the nape of her neck, holding her close for a kiss as she begins to move. Her arms slip over his shoulders, around him, chest against chest as they match each other stroke for stroke. Planting his feet against the ground, rolling his hips up against hers.

She takes his earlobe between her teeth, bites it gently. He has his eyes closed, his mouth pressed against her. Focusing on the way she feels, the way she sounds, the way he feels for her. He allows himself all of it, revels in it. He had been fighting it back for so long, feeling it in some distant way. Now it all floods forward, beats in his blood, tremors in every bone. His Warden, his Warden, and he is reaching for the kiss, her name on his lips.


	95. Garden (Solas x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I don't see a lot of Solas/Lavellan fic's that are written true to their characters. I was wondering if you could write a small bit of fluff?! <3 You are an amazing and write the best fanfiction I've read in a VERY long time.

He puts a hand at the small of her back, guides her forward. Ducking under errant branches, a veil of leaves, and she marvels at the clearing he brings her to. “I had no idea this was here,” she says as she walks forward, bare foot in grass. He stands at the entrance, his hands clasped behind his back as he watches her. Wide-eyed in wonder, reaching out, and fingertips touch against petals the likes of which she’s never seen.

“I discovered its location from one of the books in the library. I thought you might like to see it,” Solas says. Her hand falls back to her side, after plucking a strange fruit from an even stranger tree. A remnant of a time long past, seeds long forgotten. She walks back towards him, tiny blue flowers hidden in the grace. She mimics him, hands clasped behind her back, as she stops in front of him. Smiling, and the lantern bugs that flit to and fro are bright by her cheeks.

“Thank you, for showing me. It’s wonderful,” she tells him. A soft smile crosses his lips as well, as he reaches out. A strand of hair by her temples, and he so carefully brushes it behind her ear. Fingertips trace the shell of her ear, the line of her jaw. Stopping at her chin, tilting her face upwards towards his. The kiss is sweet, gentle, and all too brief. Preoccupied with what he has shown her, Lavellan moves back towards the flowers.

Crouching down by them, rooting into her bag for a large book. She plucks flowers carefully, presses them between pages. He kneels down beside her, and she begins to tell him about the structure of each plant, each weed, and each blade of grass. The lantern bugs seem to hover beside her, a glowing crown about her head. He is silent as she speaks, content to only listen.


	96. The Stories We Share (Zevran and Fenris)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: our backs tell stories no books have have the spine to carry. - for zevran *and* fenris; after reading your analysis of the two i'm craving a fic where they share their thoughts with eachother and meet. Maybe? 

There’s a hole in the roof, rubble on the counter. Hawke still has blood dried to the side of her face, and the rest of them are all draped over each other around the table. “Whatever ale is left,” Hawke tells the barkeep, “put it on my tab.” Making her way back to the table, slouching against the other side of Aveline. Donnic is at her other side, and Merrill as her legs resting over the two of them as she leans against Isabela. Varric is at the head of the table, as always, brushing off broken bits of wood and stone. Sebastian has his eyes closed, his elbow planted and chin resting in the palm of his hand. Fenris beside him, and Zevran beside him, with Carver rounding up the last of them.

Bruised and beaten, bloody and exhausted, but alive. They had made sure their homes were still standing, that rescue efforts were underway. After that, there was only one place they could go. The first round makes it to their table, and Varric realizes he’s going to be paying double in rent this month. Carver is passing out the drinks, all of them helping them go where they need to go. Fenris watches Sebastian down his all in one go, without taking a breath. Slapping it back down on the table, his head following suit. At his other side, Zevran chuckles.

“I am surprised you came to help,” Fenris tells him.

“Ah, what else could I do? You and yours helped me, I could only return the favor,” he says, with a bright smile. “And now I get free drinks. Truly excellent.” Fenris shakes his head, reaches for his own drink. Hawke has her eyes closed, speaking with Aveline about reparations for the city. Donnic quickly hushes them both, not wanting to speak about those things so soon after. They’d done enough, fighting Meredith. Fixing Kirkwall could be left for tomorrow.

“A remarkable woman,” Zevran says to Fenris. Fenris looks across the table at Hawke, rubbing her eyes. Dust on her knuckles, dirt on her cheek. She laughs at something Isabela shouts down at them, and the joy of it is reflected in every inch of her.

“Yes,” Fenris says, “she is.”

“I have a woman like that. Also remarkable. I miss her dearly,” Zevran says.

“Yet you stayed to help us, instead of going back to her?”

“Free drinks, my friend. I also worry sometimes that I am in her way, hmm? Ah, the perils of relationships. You think too much of their happiness and what they might think of you,” he says, “much easier just to fuck.” Fenris nearly chokes on his ale, and at the sound of his coughing, Zevran heartily slaps his back a few times. “I would have thought that after so much time around Isabela, you’d be used to such talk.”

“It was just… a surprise,” Fenris says. “Isabela hasn’t told us much about you. Only a few things.”

“She knows my past is not hers to tell,” he says. “As I imagine you would not want Isabela telling me about _your_ past.” Fenris grunts agreement. “She did mention she thought the two of us might get along. That we are… similar, in certain ways. I am intending to stay in Kirkwall a few more days. In that time, I would like to make a friend. My _amor_ , she ah, always tells me making friends is beneficial. Talk, before killing, yes?”

“Hawke tells me that as well,” Fenris chuckles. Zevran smiles as they knock their mugs together, take a drink.

* * *

“And then my _amor, mi dulce pájaro_ , she tells me that I am worth it. That she trusts me with her life. Trusts me – who tried to kill her. She sees the best in me,” Zevran slurs, his arm over Fenris’s shoulder. Fenris nods vigorously as they tap their mugs together once again, on their ninth, or perhaps tenth, drink.

“Hawke as well, she is – she is – so good,” Fenris clenches his fist as he looks at her wistfully. They sigh drunkenly together, take another swig.


	97. Pasts (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you do a hurt/comfort esque fic with a slave-Fenris and Hawke?

“A few more days. The deal is almost done. Fake it like you mean it,” he says.

“I have been faking it. Well, I might add,” she says.

“Well, you did learn from the best,” Varric tells her. Hawke twists a ring on her finger as she sits in the stands by the field. Adjusting the Viscount’s crown on her head, watching with distaste as Danarius speaks to his bodyguard. This contest was his idea, of course. Test Kirkwall’s finest against his. Varric had insisted she agree. With their stocks running low and after the Chantry fiasco, no lyrium dealer would touch Kirkwall. Tevinter was their only option. They had hosted them for almost a month now, wining and dining Danarius into submission.

In all that time, they had only spoken to him and never once a member of his entourage. The very least, his bodyguard. That white hair, those strange tattoos. Hawke could feel the lyrium humming from his skin. They were never apart for more than a moment, and Fenris would never hold a gaze. Always looking down, his hands clasped behind his back, listening for his masters next order. “I want to speak with him,” she says. Varric turns to look at her, quizzical.

“I thought you hated Danarius,” he says.

“Not him. Fenris,” Hawke says. Varric raises his eyebrows, takes in a deep breath as he looks at the field. The elf currently held a massive sword, Danarius’s hand on his shoulder. Mouth close to his ear, whispering something to him. Aveline on the other side of the field, looking particularly displeased with the situation. Hawke is slouched in the chair, her legs crossed, eyes narrowed. “Something tells me that he’d have lots of interesting things to tell us.”

“Good luck getting him away from Danarius,” Varric says.

“Yes, well, that’s where you come in,” she says with a flicker of a smile.

“You know I hate it when you plan things for me, without including me,” he grumbles. Hawke sits up in her seat as Danarius makes his way back. She taps fingers against the armrest, gives Danarius a welcoming smile as he takes his place beside her. Hawke barely listens to what he’s saying – a friendly bout, the extent of his friendship, what they could do together, blah, blah, blah – things she’s heard over and over again. Instead she watches the two warrior face each other. She has complete confidence in Aveline, her skill, but still there’s an unease in her. The horn blows, Fenris charges.

A blow easily caught by Aveline’s shield. She strikes out from behind it and the elf is quick, far quicker than anticipated. Aveline quickly adjusts, and they trade blows. They are both testing skill, trying to find an opening, a weakness. Danarius is leaning forward in his seat, watching with a sickening smile. Hawke leans forward as well, as the lyrium in Fenris’s skin comes alive. Streaks of lightening on the field, his sword moving without effort, putting Aveline off balance. Hawke and Varric exchange a singular glance.

Aveline is not one to give up, however. Hawke hears Danarius hiss displeasure as sword meets flesh, and Aveline draws blood. A large slice in Fenris’s upper arm, but it barely slows him. He is driving her back, the blows coming quicker than she can see them. One last sweeping one, a resounding drum of sword against shield, and Aveline is knocked to her feet. Fenris stands above her, the tip of his blade pointed at her throat, and looks at his master. Hawke immediately stands, rushes out to the field as she claps. Varric hurries beside her.

“Well done, well done! What a fine display. And you’re injured! What a pity. I’m something of a healer myself, come, let’s take a look at you,” Hawke is saying, robes sweeping behind her as she races to reach Fenris before Danarius. His feet remain planted until Danarius waves his hand, as Varric chatters on and on about nothing, leading him in the opposite direction. Aveline grumbles, throws her shield to the ground.

“Let’s go somewhere private, hmm?” Hawke says to Fenris, guiding him off the field.

“As you say,” Fenris says quietly. Leading him to an empty room, moving him to sit on the table. Dusty shelves, dirty windows, and this room has clearly not been used in a very long time. Hawke wriggles the rings off her fingers, places them on the table and puts her hand on his arm. He flinches, at that touch, and Hawke immediately pulls away.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “but I do need to touch you to heal you. Is that alright?” Fenris doesn’t look at her, slowly nods. She lets her hands settle one again, and this time, he doesn’t flinch.

“I’m going to use magic now,” she tells him. She watches as he clenches his jaw, squeezes his eyes closed, braces himself. Her heart sinks, at that. “What have they done to you?” There’s some mourning in her voice, grieving for a person she doesn’t know. Fenris’s eyes open, and he turns only slightly towards her, but still his eyes do not meet hers.

“Fenris,” she says, tapping fingers under his chin, raising his head to look at her, “you understand that you don’t – we are equal.”

“You are the Viscount,” he says, keeping his gaze respectfully low.

“We are both people – you understand that right? That makes us equal. There are no slaves in Kirkwall,” she says. Finally, finally, he looks at her. She finds his eyes are a beautiful shade of green. “I can help you. You don’t have to go back with him. Whatever he – that’s not a life. And you deserve one Fenris, you deserve to be free.”

“I am happy to serve my master.”

“Did he tell you to say that?” The smile flickers on Hawke’s lips, but it isn’t a smile, not really. Her hands fall back to her side. “You won’t be here much longer. If you want to leave Danarius, all you have to do is ask. I will help you. I promise,” she says.

That night, in the bed given to him, Fenris lies awake. On his side, fingers tracing where the cut once was. Hawke’s magic was warm, kind. He knew magic to be cruel, painful but hers – he closes his eyes. Gentle. And her offer? It could be a test. Something Danarius had planned. His fingers dig into his skin, and Fenris curls into a ball.


	98. Pasts Pt. 2 (Fenris x F!Hawke)

On the last day, the last night, Fenris raises his head. Standing beside Danarius while he sits and eats, looks down the table at her. Catching Hawke’s gaze, and Fenris does not turn away. Mouthing two words, and she slowly nods. He does not know what the outcome will be, what asking for help means. He had been agonizing over the decision for too long. He closes his eyes and he expects he will find out soon, what will happen. Either it is a trap, or he might be free. He doesn’t know what freedom means either. The dinner passes quickly, and the festivities of the last night are overshadowed by an uncertain future.

That night, in the room beside his masters, Fenris sits on his bed. He resists the urge to pace, and instead watches the door. He stands when he sees the knob begin to turn. Hawke stands before him, dressed in a way he hasn’t seen her before. Used to flowing robes, the finery of the viscount – but this, she stands in armor, she stands as the Champion of Kirkwall. A staff in one hand and with the other, she reaches out to him, and smiles. With only the slightest hesitation, Fenris puts his hand in hers. She holds it loosely, gently, guides him away from the room.

They creep past Danarius’s room, travel to places in the Keep that Fenris hasn’t been before. A room on one of the highest levels, and there Hawke’s steward waits. Varric has his arms crossed, giving Hawke a sour look as he watches her. “You do like making work for me,” he tells her.

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t pay you,” Hawke says. She turns to Fenris. “Danarius isn’t likely to give you up without a fight. So you’ll stay here, with Varric, and I’ll deal with him.”

“You’re – you’re going to kill him?” Fenris asks.

“I am.” Hawke says it without flinching, without hesitation. “Stay with Varric. I’ll be back soon.” She closes the door behind her. Fenris shifts from one foot to the other.

“You can sit if you want,” Varric tells him. “I guess I better get started on all these letters. The last thing we want is a bloody war with Tevinter.”

“I – this could cause, issues? For Hawke.”

“For Hawke? For all the bloody Free Marches. We’re killing an invited Tevinter Magister. Covering it up is going to be my finest work of art,” Varric says. Fenris has his arms crossed, his fingertips biting into skin. He doesn’t sit. Instead his shoulders remain stiff, and he paces in a tight and narrow line. After so long in silence, the sudden boom startles them both.

“Seems like it’s started,” Varric mutters. Fenris closes his eyes. Hawke doesn’t know, what Danarius is like. She is doing this for him, and she doesn’t know him. Besides the time spent together when she healed him, they had hardly spoken two words to each other. He doesn’t – he isn’t – undeserving, unworthy, a risk without benefit. Varric shouts after him as Fenris opens the door, races down the hallway. He finds them in the great hall.

The bodies of the soldiers Danarius had brought with him, some of the Kirkwall guard. Fenris steps around them, finds Hawke and Danarius trading spell after spell. Spirits he had summoned dance at his side, engage the guard Hawke has with her. Fenris slowly steps down the stairs, and Danarius’s eyes widen when he sees him. “Kill her, kill her, Fenris! Kill her!” Danarius shouts at him, pointing at Hawke. She looks over her shoulder for only just a moment, holds out her hand. A wordless thing, asking him to stand back. Then, she turns back to Danarius.

“He is no longer your slave. Fenris is a free man,” Hawke says. The words strike at the very core of him, and pinpricks dance on Fenris’s skin. A free man. Danarius snarls as he rages forward, and Hawke pulls up a barrier with ease. A fist that expands, and Danarius goes flying back. His shades are cut down one by one as Hawke makes her approach. Standing over the magister, and Hawke puts her foot on his chest.

“Tevinter will cut you down,” Danarius hisses.

“Maybe,” Hawke says, “it doesn’t matter. You’ll still be dead.” The bladed edge of her staff cuts through his throat. Fenris slowly approaches, arms wrapped around himself. Standing beside Hawke, looking at the lifeless eyes of his master, the blood that pools around his body. Free, and he doesn’t know how to feel. Not a slave, but he doesn’t know what that means. Fenris slowly looks at Hawke, and she smiles.

“It’s alright,” she tells him. “You’re going to be okay.”


	99. Battles (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could I request you are a war from the promptlist for fenhawke?

There are pieces, broken in his body. Parts of a person he doesn’t know, strange bone and memory he doesn’t recognize. Then there are the ones far too familiar, the limbs and lessons he’s been learning to let go. He feels it all under his skin, struggling against each other. Clenching his fist and he’s been trying to bind it all together, make something, someone, new. Someone he recognizes. Someone that could be taken for himself. Fenris looks at himself in the broken mirror, the shattered reflection, and turns away.

There is someone she used to be, once. She might still be mourning that person, grieving all that’s been lost. Someone else has taken her place, forced and rigid. Inside her, some ghost still laughs. Around long burning fires, shallow dug graves in foreign soil. Some curious thing, in strangers knowing the shell of her better than she knows it. Looking at her and seeing one thing, but she can only feel another. They call her Champion, and Hawke finds herself unworthy. She is who she needs to be, but not the person she wants to be.

Some war brewing, eased when she takes his hand. Putting her head on his shoulder, finding some comfort in the closeness. Closing her eyes and she thinks he might see, better than anyone else, better than even herself. Closing his eyes and she stitches him together, takes his hand among all others, holds it tight. Different, around each other. Melded, mended, whole, deserving of their names. Peace that comes from being together, completion in closeness.


	100. Burn (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I was just thinking about Magister Alexius (with all the time magic) and I was thinking... Fenris’s reaction if he had somehow been there with the inquisitor when she get hurled through time by Alexius

It warns him the closer he gets to it. Some screaming under his skin, around the edges of his markings. Burning with a piercing flame, a mistake to ignore it. A single finger, the smallest touch. The red lyrium sears through his flesh, knives that pierce and stab, and Fenris reels. Every part of him in deep agony, falling to his knees. It is the Inquisitor who helps him to his feet, and Fenris can only stare at his hand, where he had touched it. Blackened, dead. The pain still throbs.

The red lyrium breaks from the wall, from the floor, grows from stone and rubble. It hums with deep delight, warms the stagnant water underfoot. Fenris keeps his distance. Edging around each cluster, ignoring the song it sings. His own lyrium screams at the affront, the mere existence of the red. A corruption, a disease, a mockery. He follows the Inquisitor and Dorian through the halls, and wonders at the time he left behind. From the throne room to the dungeons, a displacement of the more complicated kind.

“Fiona?” The Inquisitor grips the bars of the cell, peers through in horror. It has entombed the mage, weaving into bone and vein, growing from her skin. Fiona’s eyes widen.

“You’re – alive! How? I saw you disappear into the rift!” Even her speech is corrupted with it, and that deadly hum emanating from the lyrium also sings in her voice. They pry the details from Fiona, the revelation of a year lost. At his side, Fenris’s hands clench into fists.

“We have to go back,” Fenris says. A quick glance shared between the three of them, Dorian and the Inquisitor in complete agreement.

“Please, stop this from happening,” Fiona pleads. There is nothing they can do but leave this Fiona to her fate, hope they can go back. It scratches at him, claws raking across his flesh. The more time spent here, the more it hurts. Sweat beads his brow, his back, and he does not speak of it to the others. His pain is his own, and he carries it in silence just has he has before. It would distract them from their goal. More cells, more people who thought them lost. Cassandra nearly weeps relief and Blackwall sees a savior. All the people that were with them in the throne room, except –

“Hawke,” Fenris rasps when he sees her, water splashing as he races to open the cell door. Her eyes bleed with it, her skin sick with it. Hawke uncurls herself from where she had been leaning against the wall.

“Fen. Fenris. Maker, I –” Hawke shakes with wordless grief, and the moment the door opens, she crashes into his waiting arms. “I thought you were dead, I thought… are you real? Are you real?”  Burying her face into his neck, her hands pressed tight against his back. She emanates the red. To hold her is to hold fire itself, to burn himself.

“I’m here,” he whispers fiercely into her ear, holds her tighter.


	101. Circles (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a friend

"What a stunning place, hmm? And the decor!" Zevran says as he spins in place, gestures to the bloodstains on the floor. Rémi smiles slightly, at that. A far too brief thing, so heavy on his lips. They have been allowed to stay for a night before returning to Redcliffe. It's all so familiar - from the mattress on which he sits, the pillow by his hand, the picture on the wall, the stone of the ceiling, under his feet. It might be almost cruel, to have given him his old room. He knows that if he steps outside the door he will find corpses piled in the hallway, faces he once knew well.

 Rémi’s hands sit folded in his lap, and he looks away from Zevran, stares at his knuckles. The Circle was once his home, and some part of him still feels that way. Zevran stills in his examination of the tower, lets his arms fall to his side. Closing the distance between them carefully, slipping a hand in between his. What they have done to earn this night of rest – how relieved Zevran had been when Rémi pulled him from the Fade nightmare, from the memories that haunt him still. Even in the short time they had been travelling together, Zevran had grown fond of him. Someone he is fond of does not deserve to look so sad.

“Now, now Warden.” He puts one knee on one side and the other. Clambering onto the tall elf, onto his lap, wrapping his legs around him. Brushing back hair from Rémi’s face, tucking it behind his ears as Zevran leans forward, holds him tight. Running a hand along the spine of him, threading through his hair. “There is nothing you could have done,” Zevran tells him. Rémi buries his head in the crook of his neck. Breathing in the warmth of him, closing his eyes, and Zevran’s hand moves in soft circles on his back.


	102. Son of A (Carver and F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: Carver is an idiot, but he's our idiot

To see one is to know the other is not far behind. To feel the bite of his metal is to know the sting of her magic, to have one grin is to cower under the frown of the other. The underbelly of the city becomes intimately familiar with the name Hawke, and the streets have begun to hear its echo. “Carver,” she says, puts out a waiting hand. Carver has one hand on the hilt of his sword, regards the man on the ground with disdain. He steps back, the secondary ask in that hand. She crouches down over where the man lies, and rests the head of her staff on his chest.

“You know us?” She asks. Cocking her head, resting an elbow on her knee. Resting her jaw against her knuckles, the smile on her face.

“Hawke,” he answers, his gaze flicking from her, to Carver. Her grin widens.

“Good. Then you’ll know what we’ll do to you.” The grip Carver has on the hilt tightens. Drawing his sword as he steps forward, burying the tip into the ground beside his face. Eyes widen, face pales, and he turns back to face her. She’s still smiling, drumming her staff against his chest.

“You have something that doesn’t belong to you,” Carver says.

“Just tell us where it is,” Marian says.

“Then you might be able to leave here,” Carver says.

“Alive,” Marian leans forward, the word painstakingly clear in her mouth.

* * *

“That went well,” she says as they walk together towards the warehouse. Carver scoffs.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he says. She pats him on the back.

“A little grunt work never hurt anyone.”

“We’re not the ones who fucked up in the first place,” he tells her. She thinks for a moment, before nodding in agreement, shrugging all the same.

“Come on, clean up duty isn’t that bad. Lots of down time, like this. Time to talk. Don’t you want to talk?” Carver looks at her only briefly.

“Not to you.” Marian chuckles, shoulders him playfully.

“You’re a son of a bitch Carver,” she says, “but you’re my son of a bitch.” Carver smirks, throws an arm over her shoulders.

“When we’re rich, after the expedition, I’m going to get a plaque of gold engraved. Carver: son of a bitch. I’ll hang it in my bedroom. Mom’ll love it,” he says. They laugh together, make their way towards the docks.


	103. Shadows (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: May I prompt you with something that wasn’t in any prompt lists? Zevran and the finally warden reuniting after he returned to Antiva for two years or so, to kill all of the crows and become the “black shadow” as stated in world of thedas.

There was an offer, of going with him. Seriously given, meant to be taken, unable to be accepted. Sitting at that table by ebbing candlelight, and she had put her hand over his. She had already cut so many of his strings. He had wanted, needed, to sever the rest on his own. She had looked away, the knot between her brows. Eyes searching the floor for some answer, and her hand had tightened over his. Long moments of silence before the nod, before the reaching out, her fingers brushing against his cheek, over the tattoo.

He finds a letter, in his bag, one he had not put there. A list of names, hidden Wardens across Thedas. He goes to a place he cannot trust, and she puts the olive branch in his bag. Even when she is not by his side, he feels her presence. In Antiva, he finds faces he once knew so well. He slips through the cracks, exploits learned knowledge. A Crow against a murder, murdering his way through them all. He does not touch the ones like he used to be. He goes for their masters, their leaders, the ones holding the strings.

It does some, for him. It does more, when he sees the children in the hallways. They have eyes he once had. Children, not children, lessons in the bone, whips at their backs. He finds them ships, homes, gives them coin enough to find their own way. There cannot be more. There must not be more. He works in silence, careful focus. There are only a few times he laughs his way out of situations, fewer still when he uses the names on her lists. Strange, to wear Warden armor and not be a Warden himself. They ferry him from the city, and his finger traces the griffin on his chest.

 

 

* * *

 

Easy enough, to slip into the Keep unnoticed. He makes a note of it, to himself, to correct these paths. In all the time he’s been away, she has not changed rooms. The pick in the lock, and it clicks open to his whims. She looks up from where she had been writing, at her desk. The quill lowered, slowly standing. Moving towards him, reaching out, holding his face in her hands. She smiles, “Zevran.” Lifting to put his hand over one of hers, turning to kiss the palm of her.

“ _Mi amor_ ,” he murmurs against her skin. He closes the distance between them. Arms wrapping around her, burying his face in her neck. Breathing in the scent of her, and his shoulders are not so heavy. His back, not so burdened. The rope burns around his wrists have long faded. The scars made by their whips are dim. There is no Crow left to remember him, to chase him. Shackles freed, strings cut, and he holds her tightly.

“Welcome back,” she says, and for the first time in a long time, he finds a home.


	104. Best (F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: My best is never good enough.” (Hawke)

She sits alone, because she can, because she wants to. Feet on the coffee table, one leg over the other. Wearing a sweater that’s far too large, one that used to belong to someone else. The glass of wine in her hands, eyes closed, listening to the wood crack and burn in the fire. There are books piled on the floor to the left of her, and her desk is empty of letters, her ink long forgotten. There hasn’t been a need of a Champion. Not in a very long time.

The clock behind her ticks, every second, the barely audible sound of the pendulum moving back and forth. The estate will be the property of the city after she goes. There’s no one left to give it to. There’s no one that knows her, remembers her. The statue in the docks is cracked in half, only partially standing. People pass it without a second glance, pass her without a second glance. Feet on the ground, putting the glass on the table.

She still remembers the heat of the flames, the scorching ruin of the Chantry. It’s a footnote now, a thought that doesn’t linger, a chapter in books that sit dusty on shelves. She is alone, and she has done her best, but best is never enough when you’re alone. The pendulum sways heavy, echoes loud in her head. All that she has done, all she has ever done, all she has been, all she is, has been forgotten. There’s no one left to remember.


	105. An End (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you please write from the prompts “we began with honesty. Let us end with it, too”, “I’m leaving tomorrow morning” andd “we’ll make it work” for your Mahanon Lavellan and Dorian?

He sits up in the bed, a single knee raised, his foot pressing into the mattress. Elbow on his knee, his hands playing with the hair tie. Pulling it, shifting it, the leather worn between his fingers. He watches the rain pelt against the glass doors, the split of lightning through the sky. The echoing thunder and even the stars are hidden by thick clouds. He looks over at Dorian, lying beside him. On his side, face against the pillow, blanket barely covering him. A port in a storm, he had said once. But Dorian is his only port, the only storm that matters, all in one. The harbor of his heart, everything that matters.

He very carefully places the hair tie on the table beside the bed. Then he turns towards Dorian. Reaching out, the lightest touch, gentle fingertips. Moving slowly over the rise of his hip, the curve of him. Leaning down towards him, aligning his body with his, kiss after kiss against his shoulder. His hands still move, memorizing the lines of his body, and the lightning fills the room. Dorian’s hand slips over his, stills his movement, and the thunder envelops them both. “You know,” Dorian says, as he turns to lie on his back, to look up at Mahanon, “you do not make it easy to sleep.”

“Then don’t,” he murmurs. Dorian chuckles softly, still hoarse with sleep. Mahanon is moving, shifting, a knee on either side of his hip, hands pressed against his chest. Straddling him as he bends over, loose hair drifting against him as his mouth wraps around Dorian’s neck.

“ _Amatus_ ,” threading fingers through his hair, “you and I both know we have an early, and challenging, morning ahead of us.” Mahanon doesn’t care. He would never ask him to stay. Dorian knows what he wants, what he needs to do, and Mahanon would never stand in the way of it. He doesn’t need tears, whispered begging, he doesn’t need to know all that swirls in his head. At the moment, all Mahanon wants is Dorian, to make the most of the time they have. Right now, together, with him. Dorian’s hands running over his shoulder, his back, settling at his hips as Mahanon bites a mark, kisses it tenderly.

Putting a hand beside Dorian’s head as he rises up over him, Mahanon’s hair like a parted veil. His other hand moving from his chest, over his neck. His thumb against his throat, over his chin, against his lips. Dorian opens his mouth, closes his eyes, tongue over Mahanon’s thumb. There have been many promises. An overestimation of how many letters they’ll write. An uncertain guess of when they’d be able to see each other. They tell each other they’ll make it work and Mahanon doesn’t show his fear. “ _Vhenan_ ,” and it’s almost a growl, a line of spit still connecting them as Mahanon pulls his thumb from his mouth.

A quick movement. Flipping them solidly and Dorian kneels between his legs. Hands bruising into his hips, pulling him forward. Hair trailing behind him as he wraps his legs around Dorian’s waist, as he reaches up to greet him. There is always honesty in the way they touch. Mahanon feels the shuddering need in him, the want of staying, the same he feels in himself. They were once so practical, he thinks, but that was when they were a possibility. Now they are far more, harder to explain.

He’s leaving for Tevinter in the morning. He doesn’t know when he’ll see him again. They say they’ll make it work. But if this is an end, then Mahanon wants to know. Instead, a hand at the nape of Dorian’s neck, a kiss crushed against his lips.


	106. Weak (Zevran x F!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "he makes my tongue so weak it forgets what language to speak in. & every revolution starts & ends with his lips" nsfw for noya x zevran por favor

A constant buzzing of the cicadas in the long grass, palm trees swaying in the breeze. An almost unbearable heat, no relief from it all. They make the best of it. She tests the mettle of her bonds, her wrists tied together, over her head, bound to one of the bedposts. He kneels between her legs, her feet planted against the mattress, pushing at the already slipping blanket. His hands move over her body, from knee to thigh, and she cannot see the way he smiles. The blindfold sits neatly, wrapped just tight enough, forcing her to focus. That damnable heat, the sheen of sweat on her skin, his hands against her.

Over the curve of her, from hip to waist, and he bends forward. Moving his hips so lightly, in that way, against her. The underside of his cock moving against her cunt, her clit, wetting him with her, leaking drops of pre-cum on her belly. They’ve been at this for far too long, and she aches so badly with want, the need of him. His hands roll her breast beneath his palm, and Zevran’s mouth finds her neck. Nipping gently, sucking firmly, and leaves his mark upon her skin. The salt of her sweat, mixing with the sweetness of her cunt, the taste of which still lingers on his tongue.

Nipples hard underneath his touch, thoroughly teased, attention paid. He kisses his way up her neck, to the line of her jaw, pulls her bottom lip between his teeth. Her head tilts slightly, her legs wrap around his waist. Tongue against tongue, a welcome invader, and the pace of his hips quicken, rubbing his cock against her, and her feet press against his ass. Pulling at the rope around her wrists, writhing beneath him, back arching as he finds the right rhythm. The kiss breaks as his forehead rests against hers, as they breathe roughly together. “Enough of this Arainai,” she tells him fiercely, her mouth still close to his, “fuck me or untie me.”

He smirks, pushes himself away from her, back to kneeling properly. Straightening his back, rolling his shoulders, slick with his own sweat. A breast, cupped underneath his hand, his thumb rolling over her nipple. Watching the heavy way she breathes, the warm olive of her, his Warden so helpless under his touch. He is no fool. She is weak here because she allows this weakness, submits because she chooses to submit, wants because she trusts, and loves. He holds her hips firmly, aligns the tip of his cock with her entrance. 

Her cunt is a heat all its own, unmatched, a scorching fire that draws the groan from his lips. His eyes closing, his head tipped back, savoring the feeling of his cock buried inside her to the hilt. She shudders at the sound of it, liquid pleasure from his mouth, unguarded desire. He fills her deeply, completely, pulls out slowly, thrusts back inside. It begins a rhythm of shallow thrusts, and she rolls her hips against his, a silent beg for more. The longer it goes, the more he loses control, the rougher his thrusts become. Wild and full of want, the quickened pace that makes her gasp.

It’s wordless, the next step. Her feet moving, his hands at her hips, the rope twisting as she turns, on elbows and knees, raising her ass in the air. The pillow underneath her, the sharp slap against her ass. Burying his cock inside her, holding her hips as they race to completion. Her breasts sway underneath her, the cicadas still buzz in the grass, the sound of muted grunts and groans, the occasional slap that breaks it all. His hand is heavy against the bed as he leans over her more completely, as they rut together.

He feels the way she tightens around his cock, wave after wave, her feet slipping over his legs, her toes curling. Fingernails biting into her palms, mouth open, and “Zevran, Zevran, I love – I love –” Resting his head between her shoulder blades, the frown on his brow, his teeth clenched, shuddering as he spills himself inside her, collapses against her, breathes heavy with her.


	107. Sun (Sera x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hi! I don’t think you’ve ever written sera x inquisitor before? If you would like to try it could I get 35 for the angst prompts? If not that’s okay! 

Walking wobbled on the narrow ridge, both arms out to keep her somewhat balanced, while she walks on the grass below. If Sera wanted to, she could reach out, steady herself on the horn, one of the reasons why Adaar walks so close. The other reason is to catch her if she falls. “Hey Buckles?”

“Hmm?” Looking up, and Sera is framed by the sun behind her, a halo of light around lighter hair. Hard not to think of her that way as well, the shining bright in this whole situation.

“So those marks, they mean something, yeah?” Sera asks, moving one hand to touch around her mouth, mirroring the tattooed dots that Adaar has around her lips. She sways, almost falls, and Adaar is ready to catch her, but Sera soon steadies herself, and they keep walking. Adaar reaches up, fingertips over the marks. She doesn’t need to see them to know where they are, to feel them, although they’ve already long healed.

“My mother was part of the Qun. A mage in the Qun?” Adaar looks upwards, her hand falling back to her side, and sighs. “They sew their mouths shut. They exist only for the will of their master. My mother escaped, but she still had the scars. When she died – I wanted to get something to honor her.” Sera stops walking, turns towards her. Adaar faces her, and Sera leans forward, hands heavy on her shoulders.

“Oh. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Sera’s face is bunched up, feigning mad, and Adaar smiles.

“I didn’t want to trouble you,” she says.

“I want to know everything about you Buckles!” Adaar laughs, reaching up, hands underneath Sera’s arms. So easily lifted up and away from that ridge, pulling her in for a hug. Sera happily wraps her legs around Adaar’s waist, and she’s still smiling. She’s never told anyone about the tattoos before but this is Sera, and Sera is the sun.


	108. Betrayal (DA2 Companions)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Companions’ feelings/reactions about Hawke selling Fenris back into slavery after giving him so much love and hope

**Aveline** thinks she hears it wrong. That can’t possibly be right? Aveline knows the Hawke that brought them from Ferelden to Kirkwall. She thought she knew that Hawke. Her fists clench. Is she truly going to simply stand here and let this happen? She is one against many, but Fenris is her friend. She thought Hawke was her friend, once.

 **Isabela** almost laughs. It’s a joke right? Hawke saved her from the Qunari, defended her against a horde. And now? Now she gives up Fenris to this mage and his entourage. Pathetic. A joke. No one else is laughing, and Hawke’s words are serious, pushing Fenris forward. Something twists in Isabela. She’s always known no one was good.

 **Merrill** covers her mouth with her hands, eyes wide and horrified. This isn’t right. This isn’t right. Everything she thought she once knew about Hawke is dashed in an instant. Her gaze shifts from the Magister to Hawke. Would Hawke sell her too?

His hand squeezes around his bow, and a fury that had been slumbering suddenly wakes. He can’t help the snarl, the angry burn. **Sebastian** stares daggers into Hawke’s back, that they would dare, _dare_. They trade the life of a person, their friend, to this monster? Hawke isn’t worthy of a modicum of respect. Hawke isn’t worthy of anything.

He’ll write this down, as he does with everything else. Others need to know. This is Hawke and Hawke should not be followed. **Varric** regards it all dimly, sadly, disappointed.

Joy. Elation. Vindication. **Anders** grins. He’s finally going to be gone. With each step heading home, the smile fades. He collapses at one of his cots, a shaking hand over his mouth. A man was just given to slavery and he was happy? Anders wonders what has happened to himself.


	109. Going Back (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: So, to even out all of the heartbreaking requests that you get..... Lets have one after Fenris talks to Hawke about why he walked away from her 3 years ago, finally getting to be together again.

“Perhaps it is time to move forward. I just don’t know where that leads.” For too long, he has been struggling to outrun all that stands behind him. He cuts one chain, finds three more to take its place. He thought that Danarius might be the final one, the key to let the rest fall, find some peace in his death. He thought it would change everything. Instead, he still feels the same as before, that uncertainty, those chains, questions he cannot answer. He looks up, faces her, and asks, “Do you?”

“Wherever it leads, I hope it means we’ll stay together,” she says. She moves forward to the edge of the bench of where she sits, closer to him, and smiles.

“That is my hope, as well,” he says, and he cannot help but smile back. He knows that now is the right time. He would be a fool to let it slip through his fingers. He has thought of this day for so long, agonized over what he might say. He stands at an abyss, decides to fall. “We have never discussed what happened between us three years ago.” He has let too much linger for too long. He hears her heavy exhale, sees her reach out. Gentle fingertips at the edge of his knee.

“You didn’t want to talk about it,” she says. “Fenris, you must know I have always understood. I’ve never once blamed you. You did the right thing.” The stiff line of his shoulders falters, and he takes her hand in his. Staring down at it, running his thumb over his knuckles.

“I – If I could go back, I would have done things differently,” he tells her. “But I cannot go back. I should have asked your forgiveness long ago. I hope you can forgive me now.” _You don’t need to leave, Fenris_. This time, he would not. Never again.

“Can I kiss you?” she asks softly. Hair in front of his eyes as he nods, as she moves, kneels between his legs. Looking up at him, brushing away that hair, tucking it behind his ears. Her hand lingers at his face, thumb moving in gentle circles at his cheek. The oceans of her eyes swirl, and he is lost to her waves, the depths of her. Her nose brushes against his, he can feel her breath against her lips. Eyes closing and oh to kiss her. It draws poison from a wound he could never see, could only feel. Going to his feet, pulling her with him.

Arms around her waist, holding her close. “Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you,” he murmurs against her mouth, “If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side.”


	110. Discipline (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: ❛ i was a fool to believe. it all ends today. ❜ (Fenris and Hawke)

She kneels. Arms at her side, head bowed. Beside her, her staff is cracked and broken in three places. Frowning in confusion, some blankness behind her eyes. Danarius stands, a hand on her head, the blood magic at her temples. They have fought, they have lost, and now Hawke pays the price. “Let her go,” he says, “you came here for me.” The hands tighten on his shoulders. Them, in their masked helmets, faceless slavers. His sword is too far, every inch of him driven to exhaustion. The others are slumped against the floor.

Danarius looks up from his work, smiles sadly. “I was a fool to believe you might come home with me,” he says, a sigh following his words. The scent of magic is thick and foul in the air. Hawke’s jaw clenches, fingernails biting into her palms. She wears the pain plainly, and her eyes are becoming more and more bloodshot. Fenris has seen this before. He makes her his thrall.

“A shame you have become so wild. All the lessons I have taught you, so easily unraveled. She did not treat you properly, hmm? That ends today,” Danarius says, stepping back, letting go of her. An unsteady Hawke rises to her feet. “Discipline him.”

Fenris has only known Hawke’s magic to be kind. Warm, like a gentle sun, tender around the bone. Always asking first, her voice at every step of the way. He has seen her fight. He knows she can be terror. But he never had a reason to be afraid of her. She raises her hand. He closes his eyes, braces himself. “Discipline him,” hissed, furious, impatient Danarius. Fenris opens his eyes and still, that confusion on her face. Her arm trembles, her hand shakes. There’s some magic underneath the surface, but it doesn’t reach him.

She stares at Fenris, clouded and grey, and Danarius crushes a hand to the back of her neck, shoves her forward. “Do it.” Her other hand is moving, a finger tapping at her belt. She draws his eyes to it, the knife that hangs there. He looks up at her.

“Hawke,” Fenris says. Her hand crushes into a fist, and the magic is unleashed. It consumes her. Electric, travelling over her body, into Danarius. Hawke collapses in a heap before Fenris as Danarius screams, falters, and steps back. Fenris throws himself forward, takes the knife from her belt.


	111. Catch (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Please can I have some zev x m!surana fluff to cheer me up bc I'm feeling like crap? Thank you so much, I really love your blog, it makes me happy :)

Walking through the hallways of the Keep, papers in one hand. Frowning, his other hand over his mouth as he reads through the reports. He could walk the Keep blindfolded now, and other Wardens simply step out of his way as he goes. They’re used to seeing him like this, walking as he does his work. Better than being stuck behind that infernal desk. Better than being isolated in one room, only seeing others when he needs something, or they want something from him.

“Surana!” He stops in his tracks, looks up at the sound of his name. At the end of the hallway, Zevran. Back from his latest venture, and there’s still leaves in his hair. Dirt on his cheek and is part of his cloak _burned_? He grins at the sight of Surana looking him up and down, points down at him. “ _Mi amor_ , I have missed you!” He shouts, begins to run towards him. 

“Zevran, no, I’m holding reports, Zev – Zevran!” He pays no mind to the protests, charging ahead, his arms opening wide. He takes the leap, and faithfully, Surana catches him. Papers fly in the air, float to the floor, as Zevran wraps his legs around Surana’s waist, arms around his neck. Surana holds tight to him, and the initial shock gives way to laughter, holding his bird in his arms.

“I missed you too,” Surana laughs against his chest. Forced to hold him tighter as Zevran leans back, as he takes his face in his hands, surging forward, ambushing him with the kiss.


	112. Have To (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I’m leaving tomorrow morning” F!Hawke is honest with Fenris that she is leaving for Skyhold

She always sleeps so oddly. Curled up like a cat, slanted on the bed, taking up far too much room. She manages to steal all the blankets, wrapped up around a leg, the bare one sticking out in the other direction. Lying on her side, her back to him, and he shifts himself closer. Gentle fingertips tracing over her arm, resting his head against the back of her, and she doesn’t stir. Slipping his arm underneath her neck, his body pressed against hers, holding her tightly. Only then does she shift, her hand over his. She sleeps so oddly, so invasively, and still he can’t imagine her anywhere but here, beside him.

“What is it?” Hawke asks, voice hoarse with sleep, cracked with lack of use, “what’s wrong?” She’s turning, shifting, out of his grasp, to face him. On her back and he props himself up on an elbow, leans over her. He can feel her hands moving in comforting circles on his back, curling fingers against his shoulder blade, tracking touch down his spine. His hair moves, shifts, brushes against her forehead as he puts a hand at her cheek.

“You do not have to go.” She’s still blinking awake, but at this, her eyes finally remain open. “You have done enough. I had hoped – you would change your mind. Before this.” Her hands move upwards, to the nape of his neck, touching the soft hair that wisps here. It was not that he hadn’t made his displeasure known before now. Fenris had thought she might read deeper into his short protests, his plea to go with her. She had turned him down at every turn, until they stopped talking about it. He had helped her pack, filled her bag with food and clothing, books for the journey. Now – now it’s too late.

“I do have to go. Varric, the Inquisition, needs me,” she tells him. He realizes now, she has read deeper. She understood his every complaint, every whisper, every beg and still she chooses to leave him. “It’s important. If the Wardens are compromised, hearing the Calling – I can’t lose Carver. Not again.”

“And me?” Palms pressed against the mattress, sitting up. She leans against the headboard, crosses her legs. He sits on his knees, hands folded in his lap.

“Will you not be here when I get back?” She asks.

“If you insist on leaving then I should be coming with you,” he tells her. She smiles, puts a hand over his.

“We’ve made so much progress interrupting the slave trade. Now that we know about these Venatori – Fenris everyone we’ve freed looks up to you. There’s a rebellion coming. They’ll expect you to be at the head of it,” she says, “I can’t take you away from that.”

“Nothing is more important than you,” he says.

“You know that’s not true.” She moves, going to her knees in front of him, taking his face in her hands. Leaning forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I won’t be gone long. We figure out what’s going on with the Wardens, I make sure Carver is safe, and then I come back. Not even enough time for you to miss me,” she says, kisses the tip of his nose. His hands wrap around her wrists.

“I will miss you,” he says. It already hurts, and she hasn’t even left. Her thumbs brush over his cheekbones, and her lips are light against his. His hands move down her arms, around her, hold her close one last time.


	113. Pineapple (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: hey bby 

Focused on his task, he doesn’t hear her. The stranger that enters the kitchen, lifts up the lid of one of the pizza boxes. “Pineapple,” she says. He looks up from where he’s washing dishes, his hands still submerged in soapy water, holding a plate and the dish cloth. The time on the oven blinks a quarter past four in the morning, and they the only two in the house currently awake. “Who ruins perfectly good pizza with pineapple?” She scoffs, shakes her head, at the lid falls with abject disappointment.

“I happen to like pineapple,” he tells her. She gasps with shock, covers her mouth with her hand.

“How dare you ruin perfectly good pizza? Fight me, you attractive stranger, let’s go,” she says, grabbing one of the drying rags. He laughs, holds up the plate and his dripping hands.

“Right now?”

“I have strong feelings about pizza and the things some people try to pass as acceptable things to go on said pizza,” she says, taking the plate out of his hands. Rinsing it off, drying it, and stacking it with the others. “Do you always do the dishes at house parties?” He shrugs.

“I couldn’t sleep. There was nothing better to do,” he says, reaching for the glasses.

“Awfully nice of you. I suppose that evens out your horrible taste in toppings,” she says. Wash, pass to her, rise, dry, stack. “I go to uni with Isabela. You?”

“Friend from work,” he says.

“If you’re washing her dishes, then I think she owes you some serious favors,” she tells him.

“And you? Are you going to let her help with your homework?”

“Oh no, no, no. I’ve seen Isabela’s work.” Eyes wide, shaking her head in horror. “I’m Hawke, by the way,” she says.

“Fenris,” he tells her with a nod.


	114. Speak (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: The world gives you so much pain, and here you are making gold out of it for Noya and Zevran please <3

A rare clear night, the sky free of clouds, bright stars forming shapes she knows from all the tales she’s heard. She walks the streets of Denerim, her arms crossed, her head half tilted upwards. She pauses suddenly, looks over her shoulder. “You didn’t have to follow me,” she says, “I’m more than capable of defending myself.” He smiles, walks faster to catch up with her.

“Oh yes, I am well aware. I, however, need someone to protect me,” he tells her. Slipping his arm through hers, pressing himself against her, and Zevran smiles. Raising her eyebrows, and for her, the smile is slower but still a thing assured. Continuing on, walking together, past darkened buildings and fading torchlight. “And what is the occasion, dear Warden, for this little night walk?” All he receives in answer is her gaze shifting from sky to ground, the frown between her brows.

“A game then. I am to guess? Hmm, for my first I will say that it has something to do with the Landsmeet tomorrow,” he says.

“I know what they’ll say. I’m an elf, a dalish, a savage. I can’t hide that – I don’t want to hide that.” With her free hand, she traces the vallaslin, like an arrow down her nose. “I will take my weapons, the treaties, and they won’t see a Grey Warden. They’ll see me. They know all we’ve done and what we’ve accomplished but they will say the Warden name did that, not mine,” Noya says. She stops, raises her head, and looks at him.

“I _will_ speak to them. Nothing can stop me from doing that. I would feel better if it was a battle,” she says, “fight for their support, or take it from Loghain’s corpse. They squabble like children while they stay in their high castles, while their people die and are sold like cattle. I have always known Ferelden to be a free and beautiful nation and Loghain would tear it apart. Their inaction allows him to.” His arm slips from hers as she reaches for him, and they stand facing each other, hand in hand. She squeezes his lightly.

“But Zevran,” she smiles, “I never wanted this. Any of it. It’s – a duty.” He reaches upwards, holds her face in his hands.

“A burden you do not have to bear alone, _amor_ ,” he tells her. At every step, the world has taken something from her. He has never known her to falter. He would help her stand.


	115. Honesty (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hey-not quite sure what your rules are for writing/if you write for Inquisition but I was watching some cutscenes and the one where Dorian says he's leaving just rebroke my heart (esp. because varric knew before the Inquisitor) and their banner after seemed fake and I was wondering if when you found time, you could write out a better more emotional ending? Every game I've done Dorian has been my right hand man and ik my Inquisitor would be a snot-faced-crybaby after finding out he's leaving?

He reaches for the doorknob blindly, his back pressed against the door. His other arm is slung over Dorian’s shoulders, holding him tightly. Eyes closed, mouth occupied. Breathing deeply, tasting the Orlesian wine they had been served, and nose brushes against nose as they shift. The door opens, and they stumble over the threshold together, slam it shut behind them. “ _Oof_ ,” a soft noise that escapes his lips as Mahanon presses Dorian against the wall. His hands slipping over his shoulders, at the nape of his neck, fingers at the soft hair that curls there. “ _Amatus_ ,” he says, “wait, I must speak to you.” Words spoken breathlessly, murmured in between each desperate kiss.

“Later,” Mahanon says. Two years has felt like a lifetime. He knew it would be difficult, but he wasn’t prepared for how truly lonely it could be. He had been busy closing the remaining Rifts all over Thedas, while Dorian was busy doing his work in Tevinter. Letters were never quite enough. Words given but not spoken, written and not felt. Not in the bone. Not like this. Not the taste of him on his tongue, skin against skin, him underneath his palms. Two years and oh the first sight of him. Relief, opening like flowers blooming, spreading warmth in the heart of him.

Dorian reaches between them, takes Mahanon’s face in his hands. Eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed, lips red with attention. Dorian wants nothing more than to go back to kissing him – Mahanon licks his lips, gaze drifting from his eyes to Dorian’s mouth, and back again – but he only holds him tighter. He has been dreading this moment, fearing how he might react, and if he does not tell him now… “ _Amatus_. Mahanon. Dear Inquisitor,” he says, “I’m going back to Tevinter as soon as the Exalted Council is done.” Mahanon steps back, blinks, and the frown of concern comes so quickly. Hands tightening in Dorian’s tunic, and his long hair so messily pulled back, moves over the back of Dorian’s hand.

“My father is dead. Assassinated, I believe. I received notice this morning: a perversely cheerful letter congratulating me on assuming his seat in the Magisterium. He never said anything about keeping me as his heir. This ‘ambassadorship’… his doing, I’m told. He must have wanted me away when the trouble began,” Dorian says.

“The trouble – could they follow you here? Are you in danger?” Mahanon asks, and Dorian shakes his head.

“Even they wouldn’t be so bold to try anything here,” he says, brushing thumbs over Mahanon’s cheekbones. So very like him, to worry about this. Dorian smiles. “But you see, I have to go back.” Mahanon’s hands move, wrap around Dorian’s wrists. Gently pulling them away from his face, holding them in his.

“And us, Dorian, I – _two years_. I thought – if you’re going back to Tevinter, then I’m coming with you,” he says. “Unless you…”

“There will always be an ‘us’,” Dorian tells him, “but it’s too dangerous for you. You’re still the Inquisitor and –”

“An elf,” Mahanon says flatly. “You’ll truly be a Magister. You’ll be able to make the changes you want, get rid of the people standing in your way. You’ll need help. I can go with you, and I can help. There might not be an Inquisition, or an Inquisitor, after this Council. You don’t know. You need someone at your side you can trust, and I – _I_ need you, and –” The frown is deepening as he speaks, his gaze fixed on Dorian’s shoulder as though he cannot bear to look at his face. Dorian pulls one of his hands free.

“Mahanon.” Tipping his face upwards with the tap of fingers against his chin, brushing away the tears that roll silently down his cheeks. A gentle touch, wiping them away, but they come without stopping. “For what it’s worth, I _am_ sorry.” Stepping forward, and Mahanon wraps his arms around him, buries his face in the crook of his neck, sags against him and cries.        


	116. Naive (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: You have a sadness living in places sadness shouldn’t live , zevwarden , or your warden Noya, if you please

She says mentions nothing of it. Simple acceptance of his leaving her tent without so much as a goodbye, just a smile and a wink. Time and time again. In the morning dew, she stands with a large sweater wrapped around her, watches him slink from his tent. In just his trousers, towards the stream. She leaves the fire to follow him, to stand beside him with bare feet on that mossy rock, her arms crossed. He kneels by the water, cool and pooling in his palms, splashing it against his face. A poor attempt to stir himself awake. “Zevran,” she says. He leans back where he kneels, looks over his shoulder to her.

There must have been some rain last night. Water drips off a leaf, from a tall tree, lands on her shoulder but she doesn’t notice. Instead her gaze turns from the rising sun, to him. “Do they hurt?” She doesn’t need to be specific to know what she’s talking about. He reaches up and around, a hand against his shoulder. The tattoo twists down his back, and does not cover the scars. The whips, the branding, all things to keep the little Crow in line.

“Ah, only when a storm is coming,” he tells her with a laugh. “I am better than the old woman and their knees at knowing when it is meant to rain.” The barest flicker of a frown as she steps off that rock, approaches him. He knows she carries no weapons, far too fond of her spear to have any other. Those crossed arms slowly unfold, and she reaches down. Taking a lock of his hair in her hands, holding it gently.

“What was done to you was cruel,” she says in a low voice.

“But very necessary! I would not be as skilled as I am today without them,” he says. “I’ve learned much from my time with the Crows. All very important things.”

“Skill can be taught without malice,” she tells him.

“Only if you are naïve.”

“Am I naïve?” she asks. Zevran shrugs. She crouches down beside him, hair slipping from her grasp, fingertips tracing down his spine. “You don’t have to get up every night. I won’t hurt you.” Zevran shrugs again.

“I do not fancy myself too fond of cuddles, dear Warden,” he says. She smiles.

“Liar.” Rising to her feet, crossing her arms once again. “No harm will come to you. If Crows come after you, we’ll kill them before they can get to you,” she tells him.

“And what if I hurt you? What if the Crows that come are meant to inspire me to complete my mission?” Zevran stands as well, water still dripping in his hair, off his chin, against his chest. Noya laughs.

“Perhaps I am naïve then, because I don’t think you’ll hurt me,” she says. Her hand moves and he almost flinches, but she only carries away a drop of water from his face. Still chuckling to herself as she turns, leaves him standing there as she heads back to camp.

He cups his hands together, shouts, “Naïve!” after her retreating back. His hands fall back to his side, clench into fists.


	117. Losing (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I feel like in Inquisition you never really get to see a proper reaction out of your party after the Inquisitor loses their arm, especially not out of the Inquisitor's love interest. Maybe write how you think that would go with pavellan? Please and thank you 

The ground sways beneath his unsteady feet. The haze, and the ache behind it. Sounds that sound like nothing, words he cannot hear. He knows there is an arm around his waist, and he knows his arm is around his shoulders. He knows he is meant to be supported. He knows he is being dragged instead. The world tilts, turns, as Dorian puts his other arm at his legs, hoists Mahanon into his arms. An anchorless arm hangs heavy, drips blood down Dorian’s back. Head lolling against Dorian’s chest, and he wants to close his eyes. For only a moment. He’s so tired.

Mahanon has never seemed small to him. A presence outside the frame, an energy that could be matched by no other. Now Dorian carries him like a child, and he shivers in his arms. Sweat dots his brow, pale when pale is an impossibility. His eyelids flutter and Dorian’s heart skips a beat. “ _Amatus_ ,” he says, “stay awake. Stay with me. We’re almost there.” Panic carries his steps, and the grip he has on him tightens. He tries to fight off the hand on his shoulder, but the Iron Bull holds him steady.

“Dorian. That needs to come off. Right now. It’s killing him,” he says calmly.

“And you want to cut it off here? Now? That’s just as likely to kill him,” Dorian says.

“You know I’m right.” There’s a trail behind them. The blood that oozes from every vein, the fading fade in every drop. Dorian looks at Mahanon, the wisps of hair stuck to his forehead. The lack of color in his cheeks, the teeth that chatter together. He shakes, and some different part of Dorian shakes with him. Dorian slowly kneels, lowers Mahanon to the ground. Cradling his head in his lap as Iron Bull pulls at Mahanon’s arm, away from the rest of him. Cole, at the other side, holding Mahanon down and steady.

Dorian brushes thumbs against his cheeks. There’s magic pooling underneath his palms, ready to staunch the bleeding. Iron Bull is unsheathing his axe. Mahanon’s eyelids slowly open, his head turns. Frowning at the sight of his arm on the ground, Dorian above him. Dorian leans forward as Mahanon’s lips move, closer so he can hear the whispered words. “No,” and it’s so quiet. The firepit cracks wood, spits flame, burns at the metal of the axe. Birds in the night sky, some shouting somewhere farther. “Please don’t do this.”

“Shh, _amatus_ , it’s going to be alright,” Dorian tells him. Turning his face back to his, holding him steady so that he doesn’t look. A glint, in the moonlight. Cutting, through the hair. The heavy thud as it sunders flesh and bone, touches ground. Mahanon’s eyes snap wide, his body arching, pain like lightning. His mouth opens to scream, and Dorian hates himself for the hand he claps over his mouth. Muffling the cries so that no other Qunari can find them, know where they are. Tears stream down Mahanon’s face and it’s only when Cole puts a hand on his shoulder, does Dorian finally reach inside of him, and tug on a string. Mahanon slumps into blessed unconsciousness.

There’s blood pooled around the arm. It’s sizzling, burning with unseen fire. All three of them can only watch as it turns to ash, green around the edges. Dorian is pressing his fingers into the cruel cut, pushing the magic inside. Trying to find the hurt and heal it, but there’s so _much_. Dorian shakes his head. “We need to get him back. Now,” he says.

“I can carry him,” Bull says.

“No,” Dorian snaps, and then, softly, “I’ll do it.” Back in his arms, light and lighter still, and Dorian doesn’t feel the ache in his limbs. The fatigue in every bone. His thoughts are elsewhere, and he feels only the heavy beat of his heart. Drums inside his skull and fast isn’t fast enough, running without jostling him, towards the distant eluvian. There are guards waiting for them on the other side, mages and healers. They try and take him from him. Dorian doesn’t let them. He goes with them, stays by his side.

Smoothing back Mahanon’s hair as they decide that what has been cut has not been cut enough. Pressing a kiss to his forehead as they cut it at the joint of his shoulder, throw the tainted flesh into the fire. He doesn’t sleep even as healers press rough fingers against Mahanon’s skin. Searching for the infection, rooting it out, burning it out. Wrapping what remains in bandages, and Dorian stays by his side. In that chair, by that bed, watching Mahanon sleep. Day after endless day, a hand on his chest, checking for that steady rise and fall.

His other hand in that one hand left for him to hold. Thumbs over his knuckles, and he raises that hand to his lips. Closing his eyes as he puts palm against his cheek, lips against his palm. He remains like that for a time he cannot tell, content just to feel the warmth back in Mahanon’s hand. Better, even still, when he feels those fingers twitch against his cheek. Dorian’s eyes snap open as he watches Mahanon slowly come to. Rising to his feet, leaning over the bed, smiling as Mahanon’s gaze finds his.

“ _Vhenan_? Where am I? What did –” The words stop cold in his mouth as he tries to push himself up, finds his balanced tipped. 

“Mahanon…” Dorian can only watch as Mahanon’s breathing comes quicker, as he puts a hand over the bandages. Forcing himself up, leaning against the headrest and the confusion – the frown – the question in his eyes as Mahanon looks up at him. “There was no choice. It was going to kill you,” he says. Dorian slowly sits on the bed beside him. Reaching out, brushing back that strand of hair curling at his cheek, tucking it behind his ear. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s a war coming and I – how will I fight? I, my bow, I can’t – I was going to come with you. To Tevinter. I could fight, I could protect you, I could –” Mahanon presses his hand against his face, and fingers shake over his mouth. He shivers with it, that panic, and it’s all Dorian can do to reach out. A gentle hand at the nape of his neck, pulling him forward, so that Mahanon leans against him instead. His arm slowly lowers from his mouth, wraps around Dorian, and fists into his tunic. Burying his face into the crook of Dorian’s neck.   

Dorian is threading hands through his hair, rubbing circles in his back. Head against head and Dorian squeezes his eyes closed as Mahanon’s shivering doesn’t stop. Hitched breath, and Dorian can practically feel the alarm oozing from him. “Dorian what am I going to do? What am I going to do?” There isn’t an answer.


	118. Songs (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Oooooo if you still want prompts, how about “then i’ll write a song and whenever you sing it or hear it or whistle or hum it then you’ll know. it’ll mean we love one another.” for zev/warden?

A language only they speak, a song only they can hear. Whispered in the glance, spoken in the touch of fingertips. It begins in a lull, a hush, the first syllables emerging on that first night he stays, allows himself to sleep. Darkly dreaming lashes, lips slightly parted, his limbs loosely tangled in hers. Zevran allows himself to be vulnerable with her, and she knows a link is forged. A chain they are building, rhyme and verse, letter and lettered, something that might be trust.

In the morning, he wakes slowly, as if surprise to find himself awake at all. Blinking softly, looking at the sun shining through the fabric of the tent. Turning his head, finding her curled in his arms, a leg draped over his. There’s relief tinged with some kind of peace. Her words stand like promises, and those promises she keeps. Safe, in her orbit, with the others, away from the Crows. She stretches like a cat as she comes to, mewling against him, and they lock eyes. Words spoken in the gaze, felt but not heard, and she kisses him kindly.

At night, when he lies on his stomach, she brushes fingertips over the scars on his back. Fading now, but never gone, and they hurt less under her touch. Tracing them as though she could erase them, but these are all the paths he has walked. Endlessly bloody feet, step after step, marching towards each other. She lies beside him, huddles close, kisses his shoulder. There’s something in his smile, the relaxed nature of him here. Safe, at her side, and she – closes her eyes, leans against him. Listening to the lullaby of his heart, feeling the warmth of his skin.  

It’s in the glance they make to each other as they listen to nobles talk. The hands linked under the table. Standing closer beside her than he had ever before. The kiss that isn’t quite a kiss, could be mistaken for something more. The mumbles in Antivan against her skin, the echo that follows in Common. Saying the words. Wanting her to know. And that which he doesn’t say, but she hears it all the same. Written on their skin, something only they can read, a chain that binds them to each other. They have crafted the language, something all their own. Belonging to each other, and no one else.


	119. Betrayal (Fenris x Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: What about how fenris feels about hawke’s betrayal?

A cloak of confidence, a second skin. He marches into the mansion, determined not to show fear. “Face me, Danarius!” He shouts into dark and dust and cobweb, hopes desperately for no reply. His words echo on the walls and in his mind, and he tells himself that he can stand as an equal. Room after empty room, and when he stands outside, he allows the cloak to falter. Alone, under a blanket of stars, his posture slumps. Shaking, nervous breath, the relief that floods through every vein. He tells himself he can stand as an equal, but knows that he cannot.

Speaking by a fire, and he tells Hawke that no one can run forever. Turn, and face the tiger. The words are such hollow sounding things. He deludes himself with belief, and with Hawke at his side, it becomes easier. Seasons change, the years pass, and perhaps Danarius has forgotten him. There has not been a whisper, a word, a murmur, and the feeling of safety is strange, new. It does not last. Hadriana’s face is seared in his thoughts, the cruel cutting smile, and the sting of her magic. A different beast, far easier to kill.

And after, oh, the after. The cloak is torn and shredded, not by Danarius or by Hadriana, but by himself. Ripped asunder by the ground that sinks under his feet, the memories that cannot be trusted. He is Fenris and Fenris is him, but perhaps someone else. He was named and forgot all other names, names he wants to know. A family to have, love, and all the rest. From this cloak he fashions something new, something of himself, and reaches out to the only link he has left. He does not allow fear to stop him, dares hope that it might not be a trap. A breaking in the betrayal, by the only blood family he had left.

Liquid cold runs through his veins as he looks upon Danarius’s face once again. It has not left his dreams, his nightmares, but to see it in the flesh is something else entirely. No cloak can protect him here. He will fight, and he will - “If you want him, he’s yours,” Hawke says. The chasm swallows him, the abyss beneath his feet. He has been a fool. To think, he could be anything else but a slave. Freedom only a passing thing. Resignation, in the tip of his head, and his gaze does not meet his masters. Following Danarius without a word, because he knows he is not equal.

A cloak of a different kind. He wants to crumble, when he knows he cannot. Rage, when there is no rage left. Sob and scream and all the things that show his hurt, his grief, his pain. A slave doesn’t feel, but he feels it too much. Until he feels nothing at all.


	120. Thief (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: A strange prompt idea maybe??? F!Warden giving Zevran the daggers Duncan used - either simply for the symbolism or to actually use in battle

Inside stone walls, they always think themselves so safe. Zevran walks the library of the estate, running fingertips along dusty spines. Book after book, and the candlesticks are made of gold. Bookmarks exquisite because they can afford to be, ink in a gilded pot, quills made of only the finest things. They think that if they lock their doors, that no trouble will find them. He used to prove them wrong, time and time again. Turning from the library, walking the steps to the bedrooms. Servants pay him no mind – they take one glance at his pointed ears and move on, thinking him one of them. He’s used this to his advantage before.

Standing outside the doorway, and the lock easily gives with the slightest bit of pressure. The fire still burns in the pit, although it is clear it has not been stirred for some time. The shape in the bed turns, shifts, moves to a more comfortable position. Sleep does not come quite so easily to him. Standing over her bed, and she is so unprotected, vulnerable. The mattress sinks under his weight, sitting at the edge, and he brushes hair away from her face. Leaning over, pressing lips to her shoulder. He knows what waits. He knows it isn’t safe inside or outside of walls, but she has nothing to worry about. He’s here.

Her eyes open slowly, and she shifts again, onto her back. Smiling as she reaches up, curling fingers at his cheek. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says. He knows she’s said such a thing before, but the words still feel new to him each and every time. “I have something for you.”

“Oh?” He lets himself fall backwards into the bed as she shifts. She’s reaching over onto the nightstand, shifting papers and pulling something else free. Kneeling beside him, and she pulls the dagger from its sheath. He cocks his head as he looks at it. “Isn’t that one of the weapons we found at Ostagar?” She nods.

“Yes,” she says, “it was Duncan’s. I think it should be yours.” He sits up, faces her, and she hands it over to him. A finely crafted thing, the image of a dragon twisting around the handle. Pulling it free completely, testing the balance on his finger. Never mind candlesticks and gilded pots – this was truly something to steal.

“Alistair tells me that he was a thief in his youth. Before he became a Grey Warden. Fitting that you should have it, considering the Wardens have managed to ensnare two thieves now.” she says. He encloses the dagger in its sheath with an eyebrow raised. Resting it on the bed beside them as he stalks forward, pressing her back into the bed. Wrists in his grasp, his weight above her.

“Not just a thief, my dear, unless you’ve forgotten,” he says. She smirks as she wraps her legs around his waist.

“You’ve stolen something of mine,” she murmurs against his lips.

“Mhmm? What’s that?”

“Don’t make me say it,” she says flatly, much to his delight and laughter. He carries that laughter into the kiss, steals her breath away.


	121. Salt (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Don’t mistake salt for sugar, if he wants to be with you, he will – zevwarden

“You really think we can trust him?” With his arms crossed, Alistair watches Zevran across the camp. She looks up from where she’s been setting up her tent, puts a hand on her hip, and runs her other hand through her hair. Zevran is gathering firewood by the edge of the camp, and finding not enough, begins to venture deeper into the wood. She turns her gaze from his retreating back to Alistair.

“I don’t know, I haven’t decided yet,” she says.

“You’ll make that decision awful quick when he decides to kill us. In the middle of stabbing you, you’ll be all ‘oh no! I can’t trust him! Bleh!’ And then you’ll be dead,” he tells her. She snorts laughter, mimics him in crossing her arms.

“He has no reason to kill us. He’s left the Crows,” she says.

“He _says_ he left the Crows but all Crows are liars,” Alistair says. She reaches out, puts her hand on his shoulder.

“It’s alright Alistair, you can say what you’re really thinking. I know you’re jealous that you’re not the one he’s taking to his bed,” she says, and he goes slack-jawed. Staring at her for a moment, before his cheeks flood with red.

“I am _not_ jealous,” he says, “and when he does kill us, I’m going to use my last breath to tell you that I was right. Especially if it’s after he’s – taken you to bed.” She laughs, pats his shoulder, and leaves him still fuming. Walking across the camp, giving Dog’s head an affectionate scratch as she passes. Easy enough, to follow his trail. Finding him with his arms full of firewood, bending down for more.

“If you are trying to sneak up on me, dear Warden, you must know I have heard you step on almost every twig on your way here,” he says, his back still to her.

“I was wondering if you needed some help,” she says. He stands up straight, shrugs his shoulders.

“I am not opposed,” he says. “I do so enjoy watching you bend over.” He says these things so easily, and with a smile on his face. An almost constant thing, these casual flirtations, even from the first moment of their meeting. After the attempted assassination, of course. Plying her with sweet words, sweeter touch. She knows that they aren’t all given out of sincerity. If she were a captive, she would try to play nice with her captors as well. But Zevran isn’t a captive, even if he hasn’t realized that yet. Holding out her arms, taking half of his bundle. He hasn’t realized, but she is willing to wait.


	122. Middle Ground (Cullen x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you write the inquisitor helping cullen with a headache from lyrium withdrawal?

Cullen looks up, startled at the chair that suddenly appears on the other side of his desk. “Maker’s breath, I didn’t even hear you come in,” he says, rubbing the space between his brows.

“I know,” he says, “I even knocked.” It’s a sign, more than any other. Even when overwhelmed with paperwork or bombarded by questions, Cullen is always aware of his surroundings. When he isn’t, it’s because something of a more painful sort has taken away his attention.

“I’m sorry Inquisitor, next time I’ll –” The Inquisitor waves away his words.  

“It’s alright Cullen, really. I’m just bored. Wanted to see if I could help you with some of those reports,” he says. He’s tried the more direct approach before. Demanding for him to stop working, but that was only met with protest after protest. He’s tried sending Cullen healers to help with the headaches, but he’s turned away every one he’s sent. He’s tried the softer approach of keeping an eye out on him, but that doesn’t solve anything. Instead, the Inquisitor decides to stand in the middle. The sooner the paperwork is cleared from his desk, the sooner Cullen will feel less obligated to work.

A confused frown, the tilt of his head. “I’m sure you have better things to do with your time,” Cullen says.

“I really don’t,” he says as he reaches over the desk, splits the current pile in half. Giving Cullen an easy smile, settling in to work. Cullen doesn’t realize that the doors to his office have been closed, that the Inquisitor has posted guards outside of them. No one is to enter, or to give him more work. Not tonight, at least. They work in silence save for the scratching of their quills, and the Inquisitor hates the way Cullen has to hold his head. He can practically see the pain pounding behind his eyes.

Once they finish, Cullen sighs, leans back in his chair. Resting his head on the back edge of it, closing his eyes. The Inquisitor stacks his papers quietly, moves to stand beside Cullen. His eyes snap open at the touch, but he allows himself to relax. The Inquisitor works circles with his fingertips against his temples, across his skull. Little movements that calm the beating of the lyrium drum, silence its song. Cullen doesn’t even realize he’s falling asleep, until it’s too late. He wakes up in his own bed, a glass of water on the nightstand, a note underneath it.

 _I’ve told everyone you’re taking the day off. Sleep. Feel better._ The Inquisitor’s script is oh so recognizable. Cullen smiles, settles himself back down into the bed. Pulling the covers around him, rolling over, and sleeping in. 


	123. Live Without (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: From the prompt lists: ❛ he makes my tongue so weak it forgets what language to speak in. ❜- zevwarden+ bilingual zev?

Lips against his skin, words of a different tongue. Spoken with a language he doesn’t know, a meaning he does understand. “ _Te amo, tesoro, me alegra verte_ ,” Zevran says, strained in his mouth, that heavy frown on his brow. Pressing him against the wall, his hands crushing against his arms. Finding that crevice away from all the rest, cheering soldiers and celebrating mages. Zevran’s hands move to his face, over cheekbones, thread through his hair. A palm to the nape of his neck, holding him close. The kiss is just as desperate as all those little words, all the things relief sets free.

“ _Estaba tan asustada por ti_ ,” he says as they shift, “ _volviste a mi_.” Zevran can’t keep his hands still. Moving over Surana’s shoulders, his ribs, his hips, as though he’s searching for a hurt he cannot see. As though he cannot believe he is there in front of him. He watched him disappear up that tower, saw the corruption brought by the archdemon’s death. The light. The explosion. The silence. In that moment, for perhaps the first time, Zevran realized what it might mean to lose him. Climbing those steps breathlessly, panic beating in his heart. And when he saw him, safe and alive, and oh, when he saw him.

“ _No puedo perderte. No puedo vivir sin ti_ ,” he says, “ _mi amor, mi amor, mi amor_.” Holding him tightly, gentle glass under his fingertips. His lip is split and there is pain in the kiss, the taste of iron, overpowered by the life of him. The heavy breath they share, the small groans as they press together, as Surana leans against him. As they fight for control of the kiss, tongue against tongue, pressing and pushing, reaffirmation in the act. Surana raches upwards, takes Zevran’s face in his hands. Smiling as the kiss breaks, as he can see him properly.

Zevran folds against him, arms wrapped around him, burying his head in the crook of his neck. Surana threads fingers through his hair, holds him just as tight. “I love you too,” he says softly. There will be time for celebration later. To join the crowds, to revel in victory, to ignore what’s been lost – even just for a moment. For now, for now, all they need is each other.


	124. Best Things Done on Your Knees (Zevran x F!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "what if I just dropped to my knees now?" Zevran and the Warden?

They had gone to the Assembly still fresh from the Deep Roads, covered in Darkspawn bile and carrying a crown. Casting it down in front of them all, bloody and bitter, claiming a king for the sake of the surface. It was the least they could do to offer them a place to stay for the night, with a luxurious bath to match. Steaming warm, she sinks in deep, closing her eyes and her hair like floating tendrils on the surface. Submerging completely, enjoying the weightlessness of it, the freedom of limb and thought. Unexpected, to feel the hands pulling at her waist.

Zevran is smiling as she wipes the water from her eyes, as she takes a deep breath. Arms around her, and his legs tangle up with hers. “My dear Warden,” he says, “how does it feel to be a kingmaker?” Draping her arms over his shoulders, linking her hands behind his neck. Tilting her head from side to side as she thinks. She laughs to herself, shakes her head.

“Grey Wardens aren’t supposed to involve themselves in politics,” she says finally. That pulls an undignified snort from him, and his feet touch the bottom of the pool. Slowly turning them in circles, creating waves of their own.

“Well, you are only a very new Warden after all. They can’t expect you to know all the rules,” he says. “Now, if only you could have crowned yourself, hmm? Well there is still the matter of the throne after we remove Loghain from it. Have all the lowly masses bowing to you.”

“I don’t want anyone bowing to me,” she says with a smile.

“No? Some of the best things are achieved on your knees.”

“I would rather bow to you,” she says with a smirk, hand moving to his cheek, thumb tracing the line of his jaw. The kiss is slick with water, the sound it dripping from their hair, their chins. The muted moan as she pulls his bottom lip between her teeth, takes advantage of the opening. Tongue dancing against tongue, and she is slowly pushing them towards the edge of the pool, towards the steps to get in. Up one, and up another, until he is sitting at the very edge, his feet and legs still submerged. The water pools around him, shining stone, and her mouth slips from his.

Making her way down the edge of his jaw, a gentle nip at the lobe of his ear, and kisses that pepper down his neck. Finding the goblet of his throat, taking extra care to leave a mark. Careful teeth against his skin, the pressure, the emblem of her upon his body. Fingertips that move over his chest, trace the tattoo down his body, over his belly, the curve of his waist. She loves the v of him, that rise of his hips, the blonde hair that leads a trail from belly to cock. He’s already half hard with anticipation by the time she makes it there, watching her breasts dip in and out of the water.

“My dear Zevran,” she says, “you don’t need a crown or a throne to have anyone bow to you.” She murmurs the words, her hand wrapping around his cock, her mouth at the head of him. Lips that move over his skin, warm breath that makes him ache. “You are always deserving of worship.” That grip tightens ever slowly as she begins to stroke him, and he hardens under her touch. A shining droplet at the tip, and with her eyes half lidded, cheeks flushed, she runs her tongue along the base of him, kisses the head of him. All the little teasing things that make his hands clench into fists, make the gooseflesh appear on his back. And oh, when the words stop, when her mouth swallows him whole.

A tongue that swirls, that steady rhythm, the sound of her in the water and he cannot take his eyes off of her. She is kneeling on the steps, and her hair is wet against her and swirling in the pool, her hands merciless upon ball and cock. Pressing her tongue against that sensitive lip of him, drawing the salt from him. He reaches down, a hand at her head, encouraging her deeper. Eager, to her task. Happy, to please him. His ears twitch at the obscene sounds, his mouth slack with want of her. His hand tightens, a gentle fistful of hair, and the groan is ragged in his throat. “ _Mi reina_ ,” and it is almost a growl on his lips.

Her eyes flick upwards, bright and attentive, and he feels the heat pool at the base of his belly. She locks her eyes with his, and does not move away. The pop echoes as she pulls her mouth from him, as she presses her tongue against the tip of him, laps at the pre-cum she finds. She is still stroking, her hand constant and tireless, watching the heavy way he breathes. “My king,” she says, returning the sentiment, taking him in her mouth once more. That wet heat, tight on her tongue, and she does not look away, and his hand is shaking in her hair. The other, curled at that step, fingers pressing into stone. She groans and he feels the rumble of it on his cock, and that is – that is – he is hunching over, both hands at her head, toes curling in the water.

She climbs the steps as she licks her lips, hands on his shoulders and leaning forward. Tasting himself on her tongue, and she so easily drapes herself against him. “I think,” he says, hardly able to raise his voice above a whisper, “I must return the favor.” Laughter as he rises from the pool, lifting her up and into his arms, carrying her to the bed.


	125. Best Things Done on Your Knees Pt. 2 (Zevran x F!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Lisa. You can not end your last fic there. Please make a part 2!

Wrapping legs around his waist as he carries her, leaving watery footprints on the stone. Hands slippery on her back, on her spine, while hers twist in his hair, his lips on hers. Sheets soft and clean, and he lowers her slowly. Standing at the edge of the bed, as wet locks find their place against the mattress, as her legs hang over the edge and feet finally touch floor. Her hands leave him to twist in the sheets as he runs his hands down her body. Over breast and belly, the curve of her, the swell of her hips. With a hard grasp and a quick pull, he brings her closer to the edge of the bed. Hands still moving as he slowly kneels, as he licks away a drop of water that runs along her inner thigh.

He settles her legs over his shoulders, peppers her knee with kisses. Further in and further still, his mouth leaving a trail towards her cunt. He cannot see the way she smiles, but feels how she twists. Tilting her head back as she closes her eyes and smiles, bites her bottom lip. Back arching at the first feel of warm breath, heels of her feet pressing against his back. The soft curls of her are wet with more than just water, and his eyes flick upwards briefly to enjoy the steady rise and fall of her chest.

Smiling as he concentrates on his task, as one of his hands holds steady to her thigh. Breathing over her clit, close enough to touch. “My sweet Warden,” he sighs. A peach: ripe and raw, ready to be eaten. The barest touch of his tongue against her, moving against lips, upwards ever steady, his mouth pressing into her clit. Moan ragged from her throat, knuckles against her teeth, and in this as in all other things, he is right – the best things are done on your knees. She is sweet and succulent, and he is more than pleased, honored, to eat at her table.

He moves that free hand upwards, tentative fingers to reach the places his tongue cannot. Plying at her entrance, testing her want, and the tease is a game he wins when her hand moves from the sheet, winds in his hair. Pressing his face closer to her cunt, her feet echoing the sentiment, his name on her mouth. He always waits until that name becomes a plea, a beg, “ _Zev_ ,” before he pushes his finger inside. A steady rhythm that makes her hips buck with want of more, to be filled with all of him. Grinding against his mouth, and the momentary disappoint that breaks in her when he pulls away.

Wiping his mouth with his arm, standing before her, hands tight at her hips. Pulling at her once again, encouraging her to turn over. Standing on her toes, elbows on the mattress, ass raised in the air. One hand helping her balance, the other wrapping around the base of his cock. Ready for him, and they both cannot wait. His head tips back as he buries himself inside her to the hilt, feels her so wet and warm and tight around him. His hands half shake with it, bruising into her hips. Pulling himself out ever so slowly, and back in again. She stutters with the moan, unsteady on her feet.

They find their rhythm quickly and easily, as he bends over her. Reaching a hand around to her clit, the steady circle of his finger matching each heavy thrust. “ _Mi reina, mi reina_ ,” he murmurs as her hands clench tighter into the sheets, her eyes squeezed closed. Silent, but for the sound of flesh against flesh, the creak of the bed. Hearing none of it but the moans that come even quicker from her, the labored inhale, the breathless exhale. Almost unbearable when her cunt clenches around him, wave after wave of pleasure that crashes against his shore. Barely able to slip from her in time, seed spilling onto the floor between their legs.

Collapsing onto the bed together, tangled up in each other’s arms. His hands run along her arm, he presses a kiss to her shoulder. Brushing hair away from the nape of her neck, running careful teeth against her skin. Finding her earlobe, teasing it carefully. “My Warden.” Wrapping his arms around her, pulling her closer against him, smiling in the company of his lover.


	126. Spirits (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Keats prompts?!?! 'Spirit that here reignest, spirit here that mourneth!' You hit my weak spot there!

The paddle splits the waves, pushes against water. The boat moves ever closer to the island, and a heaviness begins to set on their shoulders. “We shouldn’t be here,” Cole murmurs.

“Don’t say that,” Iron Bull says, “don’t fucking say that cryptic shit.” There’s a mist that hangs over the island, covers moss and grass, disappears into the lake. They can only see them as they get closer, as they pull the boat to shore. “This isn’t right.” Walking in the mist are aimless spirits with closed eyes. Half formed creatures that ebb in and out of sight. Mockery of the mortal form, twisted creatures that try to be but are not. The mist parts before them as they walk, and the spirits continue moving as though they are not there.

On solid ground, that weight pushes even harder. Some shroud over their minds that cast thoughts downwards, a bog they are unable to pull themselves from. “Sorrow,” Cole says.

“The spirits must have been drawn here by something,” Dorian says. Faintly do they whisper, do they mourn, do they hold themselves and sweep. Flickering in the sunlight and some do nothing at all. Mahanon’s hand trembles, the anchor drawn and hungry towards something in the distance. Bull draws his axe, keeps it close. Cole is spinning round as they walk, looking at each and every spirit as they pass.

“Hello,” he says, but none answer him. Instead, they speak of more distant things.

“This blood… my blood? No, I can’t… Ameridan…Ameridan, why?” Dorian raises his eyebrows at the sound, turns towards the others.

“At least we know we’re on the right track,” Dorian says.

“Sleep. I need to… I must find you…”

“She sounds like she’s in pain,” Mahanon says as he frowns, clenching his hand into a fist. Fingertips biting into his palm, little shocks like lightning from the anchor spitting into every nerve.

“ _Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun_.” Bull immediately puts his axe through the nearest spirit, waves it around through the air, fanning it back and forth, trying to make it dissipate.

“It just spoke to me. I hate this,” Bull says, axe lowering slightly only so he can take aim at any other spirit who comes near them.

“Curious! It seems that not only are they drawn by whatever Telana and Ameridan did, but also by the sorrow of any living being that comes to this island,” Dorian says. It’s as though the realization draws the spirits closer. Crowding around them, a fog all their own. One flickers in front of Mahanon.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” it says, “promise me you’ll be happy. Bury me and move on. Promise me.” Mahanon simply stares at it. There’s no trace of his former lover in this spirit, besides the voice that sounds much too like him.

“Someone you know?” Dorian asks. It’s all been a casual flirtation, something easy to pass the time. They’ve made no promises, said no words, but the look on Mahanon’s face – there are things Dorian does not know, things he must learn. What ‘ _vhenan’_ means, for one. 

“I used to,” Mahanon says. Reaching out, waving his hand through the spirit. It’s as though the anchor drives them all back, sending them scattering to all corners of the island. It clears a path, and a shack on the ridge becomes clearer. “That must be where Telana and Ameridan were.” In that shack, on that bedroll, the bones of someone who once was. Withered flowers, yellowed pages, torn books. Some ancient breach, but one the anchor is happy to open. Ripping the thread free, and all of Telana’s regret and sorrow washes over them.


	127. A Dance (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you do ace!wardenxzevran? Maybe like accepting the message thing but saying no to sex?

“Are you taking me to your tent for a massage or are you taking me to your tent for a _massage_?” She asks. There’s an explanation somewhere in the back of her throat, but it always seems to choke there. Too many looks, prying and crude questions from those in her past to offer anything now freely. Jaw tight, hands clenched. Hesitant in her gaze, awkward in thinking of what he might say. Zevran cocks his head, ponders the question for only just a moment.

“Ah! I see, you take your pleasure differently.” He leans down with a flourish, a resplendent bow before her, head dipped low and holding out a hand for her to take.

“Are you asking me to dance Zevran?” She asks with a confused smile. He looks up with a grin of his own.

“Of course! We must celebrate,” he tells her.

“Celebrate what exactly?” Putting her hand in his, and he holds it tightly but not unkindly. Still smiling as he stands up straighter, puts an arm around her waist and pulls her closer.

“That a beautiful woman enjoys my company,” he says, “and that a beautiful man enjoys yours.” It’s the wink that does her in, startled laughter as she lets her other hand rest on his shoulder. As the laughter fades into silence, it’s replaced by humming. Some song she doesn’t know, and Zevran guides their steps to the tune. His mouth so close to her ear, the song so clear, their steps light and easy.

“You don’t mind?” She asks softly. She doesn’t need to clarify.

“I do not mind. You forget I have been all over Thedas. I have met many like you, but you are unlike them – if you catch my meaning.” Ever the charmer. “I still would like to give you a massage. You carry so much on your shoulders, hmm? Allow me to lift some of it for you,” he says. Stepping back, raising their hands together, and twirling her underneath them. Pulling them back together, the snap of a magnet, and she sways with him. Someone she met not long ago, someone who had been sent to kill her – and she knows there’s some danger in this. Still, smiling along with him, listening to him hum, dancing without a care. 


	128. How About (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: hey bb!! maybe please do “Oh, were you gonna shut your mouth? Because that would be a surprise.” with a pairing of your choice? thank you 

“Alistair,” she says softly, and he’s still in the midst of saying something even as her fingertips turn his face towards hers. Her lips softly brush against his and the words die instantly, his eyes wide even as hers are closed. Making note of long lashes, the circle of freckles at her temple. The smallest scar at her cheek, the wisps of hair that curl against her face. She’s half chuckling as she pulls away, watching the way the blush creeps up his neck and envelopes him.

“So you are capable of being quiet,” she says, “what a surprise.” Still chuckling as she rests an elbow on her knee, her chin in the palm of her hand. Watching him collect himself, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Hey! I resent that,” he says. “I can be quiet any time I want to. I just don’t want to.” The smile on her face grows as she looks up at him, stray hair crossing her face. Tentatively, he reaches out, brushes it back behind her ear. This is all so new to him, and he finds himself awkward in every movement, every word, and every decision.

“You scare me. You know,” he says.

“Oh?” Eyebrows rising, looking at him expectantly. Alistair hunches himself over, looking over the campfire at all the others. They pay them no mind, too caught up in whatever they’re doing. Slowly inching over on the log closer to her, putting his own elbows on his knees. Leaning down to level his face with hers, looking at her seriously.

“Aren’t you scared? About this? About – us?” She reaches out, threads fingers through his hair, and scratches his head lightly.

“I think it’s the one thing I’m not scared about,” she tells him. “I mean, we’re dealing with darkspawn, the archdemon, and a ‘king’ who wants to kill us, but you…” He leans a little further, returns the kiss she gave him earlier. Logs in the bonfire crack and burn, cast light and warmth. Warmer where they are, hands slowly entwining.

“I just don’t want to mess this up,” he murmurs softly.

“I don’t think you could,” she says.

 

* * *

 

He says he is no king. He calls himself a dog, as though that’s fair, as though he doesn’t think he should be anything more. He says he is no king. He calls himself happy, to be a Warden, to have lived the life he lived. He says he is no king. He calls himself yours, bends down on one knee, a kiss pressed to each knuckle and a smile on his face. He says he is no king. He says the burden is his, as though that’s fair, as though he doesn’t think he’s more worthy of life. He says he is no king, and no crown could do him justice.


	129. Wheat (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you please write about Zevran and innocent warden being together, while the warden having no idea how to be in a romantic relationship is kinda awkward around Zevran

A field of spun gold, the wheat sways gently in the breeze. They lie among it, enough distance away from the Imperial Highway, as they wait for the others to return. Scouting ahead, checking for sign of Loghain’s soldiers. She would have preferred to stay off the road, but they’re running out of time. The sooner they’re back in Redcliffe, the better. She’s looking in the distance for signs of them, but her attention is stolen by Zevran putting his head in her lap. Smiling as he closes his eyes, links his fingers over his belly. Resting quietly, the sun shining on his face.

She plucks a stem of wheat from the ground. Curling it between her fingers, unsure what to do with him so close. She weaves the now broken stem into his hair, one of his braids, over and between each twist. It settles nicely, a half of a crown. “Zevran,” she says.

“Hmm?” He does not open his eyes, but his eyebrows do raise slightly, letting her know that he’s listening.

“I’ve never been in a relationship before,” she tells him. He chuckles under his breath.

“I would put a large wager on many having been wanting to be with you,” he says, “and you missing all of their advances.” She slouches with a pout, a grumbling agreement. Even with Zevran’s constant advances, it had taken her weeks to realize – even then. Leliana putting hands on her shoulders, a tight grip, telling her that the flowers, the gifts, all of it, was because he was courting her.

“That’s not my point,” she says, and he laughs. Finally opening his eyes, looking up at her, framed so by cloud and sun. “I have no idea how to do… this. I’m probably going to disappoint you.” He shifts, turning over, on hands and knees. Leaning forward, his nose brushing against hers, lips ghosting across hers.

“Never,” he tells her.


	130. Happiest (Zevran)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: the prompt that read "never fall in love with a woman who sells herself. it always ends bad" reminded me a little of a situation Zevran might've almost found himself in. do you think you can write it for Zevran and Rinnala?

And when was the last time he was happy? Hard, to think of it. Perhaps that day, curled up on the couch, leaning against Taliesen. Rinna bringing drinks, laughing as she wedges herself between them. Talking about nothing, everything that isn’t about the Crows. They could almost be mistaken for people. Not tools, not weapons, not three with scars on their backs. She looks at him, shining like a diamond bright, and smiles.

Zevran is told she is a traitor. Selling all she is for coin, and them, not even worth part of the take.

Taliesen puts one hand under her chin, tops her face upwards. Turning the blade in his other hand, metal glinting in the flickering candlelight. Edge against skin, against her neck. Rinna does not close her eyes, does not look at Taliesen. The time for pleas have passed. She looks at Zevran, and does not shift her gaze. Not even as the blade moves, draws that bloody line. The curtain falls, and she falls with it.

Zevran is told she is innocent. Never once did she sell them, betray him.

He sees her every night. She haunts him in every corner, watching his dreams. The blood still runs, a river at her feet. Not once does she speak. She doesn’t have to. She carries his guilt, his shame, in her arms. She judges him in silence, finds him unworthy. He walks towards her but she is always out of reach, and no apology can find where her body lies.

Zevran is told it is a suicide mission. He accepts without hesitation.


	131. Rooms (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “I got a bed in the other room” F!hawke and Fenris

Pulling the robe around her as she hurries down the stairs, hair sleep tousled and wild. Opening the door to find him standing there, in the cold and dark, the rain coming down around his shoulders. She’s offered him a key once before. It’s still sitting on her desk. A key means something he isn’t yet ready to give, a promise he can’t quite make. She never repeats the offer, but she doesn’t have to for him to know that it’s always there. She smiles when she sees him, holds out her hand. He takes it freely, steps inside.

The spare room is always made, ready, just in case. On those days he needs to be near, but needs to be alone. “You should go back to bed,” he tells her quietly as they walk up the stairs together. Fenris knows his way around the estate.

“Let me at least warm the bath for you,” she says. A hand covers her mouth as she yawns, draws the heat rune where she has many times before, with her eyes closed. Smiling as she reaches up, rolls a strand of his hair between her fingers. Hawke doesn’t need to see it to know there’s goosebumps on his skin, and she doesn’t ask where he’s been. A towel on the counter, fresh clothes he’s left here.

“I’ll be in bed,” she says, “you’re welcome to join after.” He knows he has a right to feel what he feels. Every inch of despair, the breadth of his anger. The grief that follows, the mourning of what’s been done. She doesn’t ask him to give any of it away, and she offers to carry some of it for him. He knows she can bear it, but she grieves her own. They share in the ways they know how.

Fenris slips into her bed warm and dry, curls close to her. A hand on her shoulder, down her arm, bending his body to hers, against her back. She smells of lavender, the musty haze of dreaming. Slipping an arm under her neck, the other around her, and he holds her close. Closing his eyes as he listens to her breathe, the rain that gently falls against glass. There are times he needs to be alone. Times he needs to be closer than he can stand. They find a balance.


	132. Looking (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: If that prompt post you reblogged was meant to be "used" this way, “Surprised you saw me, the way you keep looking every other direction to make sure no one’s watching. Careful there, or you’ll sprain your neck.” for Fenhawke? I love your writing, I always get so excited when I get a notification saying you posted something! Thank you so much for sharing!

Her feet sink in the sand, and she leaves a trail behind her. The road has been swept over, abandoned, and they go towards a place not found on any map. Broken wagons sleeping under blankets, the flashes of metal hidden, and there’s even sand in her hair. Raising her hand, breaking the line of the sun as she looks ahead. They finally reach an outcropping of rock, stone, ruined walls and ancient roads unburied. Hawke leans against her staff as she stares at this forgotten fortress. There were _discussions_ , about her coming along. So soon after her fight with the Arishok, but no one could convince her to stay behind.

Aveline pointed out that even had they left without her, she would have found some way to catch up with them. “I’m fine,” Hawke had said, “and I need to get out of this house or I’m going to go mad.” Fine – but Fenris watches her press a hand against her belly, the slightest wince on her face, before she carries on down the slope. He hurries to catch up with her, pretends as though he isn’t doing it on purpose. He doesn’t catch the small smile that crosses her face when she sees him so close as he’s too busy looking everywhere but at her.

He sees her clearly later, in the path of the charging bronto. Fenris sweeps forward, pushing against her, shoving her out of the way. He only just stops the horn of it with the breadth of his sword, and he goes tumbling backwards as the beast knocks him away. Hawke is also on the ground, pushing herself up, eyes wide as she sees the bronto circling him. Varric and Carver are busy with their own group of dwarves and she – expelling every last bit of power, her hand extended, her palm outwards, and the bronto is shoved and knocked into the distant wall. Crumbling under the shock of it, and the bronto is buried under rubble.

Fenris is rolling onto his hands and knees, picking up his sword as he rises to his feet. She is by his side in an instant, her hand on his back. Before she gets a chance to say even a word, his free hand is tight on her shoulder. “Are you alright?” He asks. Concern and worry both waver in the knot of his brow, the downturn of his mouth. Studying her from head to toe, and Hawke lets out the breath she had been holding.

“Am _I_ alright? Fenris, a bronto just charged you. Are you alright?” She asks. The nod is quick, instant, and his hand is falling back to his side. “You saved me. It’s a good thing I asked you along.”

“Yes, I am – I am glad you did,” he says.

“Is there a reason I wouldn’t?” Varric is picking out the still useable bolts from the bodies of the carta dwarves. Carver’s sword is sheathed, and he closes his eyes as he stretches. Both of them exchange knowing glances as they watch Hawke and Fenris talk, and give them their space.

“I just… am pleased. To see you. Unharmed. That’s all,” he says. Clearing his throat as he notices Carver and Varric – who abruptly turn in place, pretend to be making conversation with each other. “We should move on.”

“As you say,” she smiles. He almost stomps forward, sheathing his sword, flexing his hands into fists and out again. Marching past the others, but at the top of the staircase he waits, looks over his shoulder to find her. Seeing she’s near, he begins to walk once again. Staring at his steps and he doesn’t know the gaze that drifts over his shoulders, his back, his hands. She’s wistful in it, and they both think they hide it so well. Carver rolls his eyes.


	133. Word of Fire (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Zevran/m!Amell for 'o breathe a word or two of fire'???? Your writing is so emotional and evocative!

Bitter salt tasting on his tongue, against his lips, this kiss that aches. He’s never known such a thing to hurt so badly. “We could still go,” he says, “I want to show you all the warm places of the world.” There’s dried blood under his nose, a scrape on his cheek. Sweat on his brow, and even as Amell’s hands hold his face, they tremble ever slightly. This corner of the stairwell, and Alistair is waiting, the Archdemon breathing wounded fire.

“I’m sorry Zevran,” he murmurs hoarsely.

“Allow me this one selfish request, _amor_ ,” he says. The faintest smile crosses Amell’s face. Tender, in the way he studies him. Loving, in the way his thumbs sweep against his cheekbones.

“Live well, my love,” he says. The words scald him, pouring burning metal down his throat. Closing eyes, leaning together. Breathing him in as though the kiss might keep him safe, a hand winding in his hair. Iron, from the cut on his lip. The blood that beckons more. They push and press against each other, a fight to be closer still, and Amell puts a hand against his chest. A command, when he’s never given one before. Stay. He turns, moves to go up those steps. Zevran has never been good at following orders. He goes to follow.

Amell doesn’t even look back as he erects the barrier. “No,” Zevran shouts after him as he beats his fists against it, “no!” He watches the back of him disappear up the stairs. “Amell! Come back!” He bloodies knuckles against a barrier that will not budge, and Amell doesn’t look back. Zevran’s hands tremble against this place he cannot pass. He shudders with heavy breath, the sweat that drips down his temples, down his back. The tower shakes, the archdemon screams. Listening to every shout, feeling every blow. In the silence, he holds his breath.

And when the barrier falls, Zevran falls too.


	134. Question (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “I was Thinking about pavellan, and the phrase Let's get married but it's bittersweet and a little angsty, perhaps because of the separation that's gonna happen, or because of smth else idk but yeah”

In the morning light, he sits up, blankets haphazardly across him. One leg hanging off the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Dorian, beside him, sleeping on his stomach. He’s kicked off the blankets completely, one leg pulled up. Lavellen smiles as he looks at him. Leaning over, tracing the steps of his spine, the dip of his back. All the lines of him, the roads he’s memorized, and the curves he’s kissed time and time again. Light touches over his hips, trailing over ribs. “You know _amatus_ ,” he says, mumbling against the pillow, “Tickling someone does not exactly help them sleep.”

Lavellan chuckles under his breath as he lies back down, closer this time, half draping himself over Dorian. “Sorry,” he says, peppering his shoulder with kisses.

“No you’re not,” Dorian mumbles.

“I’m really not,” he says. Dorian rolls over, and Lavellan moves with him. Facing each other, and Dorian’s eyes are still closed. Holding hands between them, and their legs entwine. Thumbs over knuckles and the birds have taken up renewed song. From across the battlements, tune meets matching melody, a discussion in a language they can’t understand. So far and yet so near, under steady wing and breeze. The distance between them won’t be quite the same as the ones between the birds. Not so easy to cross, to call, to see each other again.

“Let’s get married,” Lavellan says. Dorian’s eyes snap open. The little movements of his hands still, and he can only stare at Lavellan.

“This is – not a discussion for the morning,” he says finally.

“Why?” Lavellan asks as he shifts. Half sitting up, leaning over Dorian. “I’m serious. Before you leave.” Dorian lies on his back, and a hand settles on Lavellan’s arm. Moving restlessly up and down, and there’s a determined frown between his brows. “I love you. I know you love me too. Why shouldn’t we get married? You wanted there to be change, so let’s lead by example.”

“You’re the Herald of Andraste –”

“You know I hate that, and it’s not true.”

“The Herald of Andraste, and an altus of Tevinter – the scandalous son of the Pavus family, no less. It certainly would be all the talk at parties. As much as I like making a scene, I don’t think it’s wise. You and I… we’re already targets,” he says as he begins to sit up as well. Leaning against the headboard, and his hand is still at Lavellan’s arm.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone for,” Dorian says, “or if I can even come back.”

“Then I’ll come to Tevinter.” Dorian’s hand squeezes at his arm. He’s already thought of this. It haunts his dreams. Speaking at the Senate, coming home to find an assassination attempt that’s been successful. Lavellan, dying so far away from home, because of him.

“Not while you’re the head of the Inquisition,” he says slowly.

“Corypheus is dead, who knows how much longer the Inquisition will be needed. Please Dorian, I – I don’t want to lose you,” Lavellan pleads, leaning forward, hands on his shoulders. Dorian reaches upwards, loves those soft wisps of hair at Lavellan’s nape, and pulls him closer.

“I don’t want to lose you either,” he says.


	135. Storms (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 60, "hold still" please! fenris/hawke if u like

“I love storms,” she says with a smile on her face. Knees pulled up, arms wrapped around her legs. She tips slightly towards him, bumps her shoulder against his. They share the tent, just as Isabela and Merrill share the other. While the other two sleep, Hawke and Fenris watch lightning split the night sky. She keeps the slightest barrier, protection from the rain that sleets against the tent. Wards written on the leather, keeping the water from pooling under it. The thunder claps, and he can half feel it in his bones. Sitting cross-legged, his fingers knitting together in his lap.

“They make me uneasy,” he tells her.

“I find them peaceful,” she says. He scoffs laughter. Darkness becomes bright as lightning dances through storm clouds, reflects on rain drops. The thunder follows, cart behind the horse, rumbling as it goes.

“Only you could find peace in this – chaos,” he says, with the slightest wave. She reaches out, lets her hand rest on his arm.

“Hold still,” she says in a hushed whisper, leaning close to him. Resting her chin on her shoulder, and the lightning flashes, crosses her face, and her eyes shine with it. “Close your eyes.” The slight smile as he looks at her, slowly closes his eyes. She shifts, and her other hand rests on his knee. “Listen.” The sound of her voice, low under the rain. A crack, the flash, white against his eyelids. The thunder, and he barely breathes.

“In this ocean, you are a rock,” she says, “unmoving. Things happen around you, but you’re a constant. Things change, but you remain. That’s why I find them peaceful. Storms tell me that no matter what happens, it’ll be okay.” Fenris opens his eyes. Hawke is still watching him, long dark lashes, and he lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“May I kiss you?” He asks hoarsely.

“Always,” she says. He reaches up, curling fingers against her cheek, and there’s a smile of his own in it. Lip against lip, and all other sounds fade away. Just her, moving to his lap, the warmth of her, the sound of her breathing. The lightning and the thunder in her every word, the rain of fingertips against his skin. A storm, his peace, the bright, the rumble.


	136. Woods (Solas x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hello!I am a big fat sucker for kissing so if you feel like writing about solavellan passionate kissing I would be forever in ur debt

They step through the ruins, moonlight streaming through the cracks. Vines drape down from the railings, moss over the long untouched rubble. This place has been forgotten, just as so much else. A good enough place to make camp, shelter from the creatures that roam through the wood. He stands at the entrance, his staff in his hands. Leaning against one of the crumbling pillars, looking out through the broken wall. The Graves sleeps, but she does not. He turns when he hears her, watches her walk up the stairwell. Fingertips light against the railing and she smiles down at him before she disappears through a doorway.

Footprints left in the dirt, easy enough to follow. Through quiet hallways, abandoned rooms. He finds her on a sloped balcony, leaning over the railing. Leaning his staff against the wall, before he goes to stand beside her. Having been built into the side of a hill, they are able to look out over the canopy of trees. The stars above them, the green below. Birds that flutter, the quiet calls of predators in the dark. “It’s so beautiful,” she says as she rights herself, turns to look at him. That smile still on her face and, “I knew you’d find me.”

Putting a hand at the small of her back, moving closer. “There is so much I want to show you,” he says, “this place, when it was whole.” She shifts, stands before him, hands on his arms, moving to his shoulders.

“Then show me. Find me in the Fade. We can dream together,” she says. He smiles as his hands settle on her hips.

“You are a remarkable woman,” he says.

“Flatterer,” she says with a smirk, glancing from his eyes, to his lips. From his shoulder to the nape of his neck, and her fingers curl there. Her eyes close as he leans forward, holding her tighter. Splayed against her back, moving upwards, and down again, feeling the curves of her. The first kiss is sweet, delicate, an ask, the permission, inhale. The second is the exhale. Pulling her ever closer so that she holds to him for balance, leans against him.

Sliding his hand through her hair slowly, and he cannot stop the furrow in his brow. The shift, nose brushing against nose, the slightest groan at the back of his throat. The kiss breathes air into his lungs, her tongue wet and warm against his. She is pressed against the railing, against him, and he savors the sigh she gives as they break apart. Moving to kiss the line of her jaw as he pulls gently at her hair, tilts her head back. Following the goblet of her throat, the collarbone, back to take an earlobe between his teeth. She finds him again, her hand at his chin, and stands on her toes. Wrapping arms around her as she sinks into it, into him, a kiss, again and again.

“Solas,” she murmurs in between, and his name sounds best on her lips. Pressing, pulling, and fisting a hand into his tunic. Reaching for her, over hip and under thigh, pulling her up into his arms. She wraps her legs around his waist, arms over his shoulders and they do not break the kiss. Solas takes her from the balcony, finds a world all their own in her touch. 


	137. Staying (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hi! Could you write "stay here tonight" for pavellan? Thank you so much

Cassandra bodily shoves the shade, staggering it, sinks the blade into its middle. Lavellan very near her, loosing another arrow over her shoulder, tagging the next one to tackle. The rift had opened unexpectedly, so very near Haven. The soldier had found them, breathless with the news, and they had come as quickly as possible, grabbing whoever was closest. The cold chill of winter breath passes by Lavellan and the shade near him is encased in ice. Vivienne whirls her staff, finds the next. Varric on the ridge, the steady rhythm of his bolts, and Lavellan runs across the snow.

Sliding under the tree, taking the arrow from the shade. Moving to line up the shot, concentration narrowing, and he doesn’t hear Varric shout. Claws find the back of him, lift him up weightlessly into the air. The fear demon turns Lavellan towards its face, as he scrambles for the dagger on his belt. Warm breath, sulfuric, and the demon opens its mouth. The spider like limbs at its back sink into his shoulder, hold him there as Lavellan kicks at its chest. It screams, and Lavellan screams with it, the claws digging deep.

Cassandra swipes at its legs, and it drops Lavellan instantly. An undignified heap, crawling away, curling underneath the tree. The demon goes up in flames, and Cassandra bends down beside him. “Lavellan? We can close it now.” Vivienne’s eyes narrow as she circles him, moves the shredded cloth out of the way. Eyeing the wounds, the green that oozes from them.

“He’s been poisoned,” she says. Holding up a hand as Cassandra opens her mouth and, “it won’t kill him. It will wear off. That was a fear demon, and so fear is what he’s been injected with. We should close the rift but the Inquisition cannot see their so-called Herald like this.”

“We passed a cabin on the way here. It used to belong to the herbalist. He could stay there for the night,” Varric says. Cassandra is helping Lavellan to his feet, and gives a confirming nod.

“I’m sorry,” Lavellan says, his teeth chattering, holding onto Cassandra’s arm, “I didn’t see it.”

“Varric and I will head back to Haven. I’ll speak with Dorian and Solas to see if there’s anything we can do to make it wear off faster,” Vivienne says, her staff easy in her hands. Lavellan holds out his hand, and the hunger of the mark deepens. Eating this aberration of Fade, the starvation in it, and he winces, clenches his hand into a fist when he’s done.

 

* * *

 

Lavellan startles upwards, pulls the blanket closer around him when the door is kicked open. Dorian, a tray in his hands. “Why they chose to have their base in the mountains is beyond me,” he says, “I don’t think I’ve been warm once since I got here.” The smile flutters on Lavellan’s face, but he stays curled up in that corner, on the bed. Setting the tray beside him, removing the cover.

“I thought you could use something to eat. And some excellent company as well, instead of just those guards outside,” Dorian says. Sitting on the bed beside him, stretching out and putting one leg over the other. Reaching onto the tray, stealing a piece of bread, at ease as he eats. “Fear demon toxin, hmm? Nasty stuff. I was dabbling in potions once - put just a touch too much spindleweed in with the toxin and poof – blew up in my face. I screamed like a donkey.” Lavellan finally gives him a true smile, startled laughter.

“Rather cozy here and you’re better company than Solas. I think I’ll stay here tonight,” Dorian says. Lavellan, knees at his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, allows himself to tip over. Head on Dorian’s shoulder, toes just poking out underneath the blanket.

“Thank you Dorian,” he murmurs. Even pumped full of the toxin, Lavellan doesn’t show one sign of being afraid of this _nasty_ altus from Tevinter. Others go out of their way to avoid him, or show outright shock and disgust. Never once with this elf, and Dorian finds himself growing even fonder of him.


	138. Terribly (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: All the way to Skyhold? Just for me?" fenhawke obvs pls i love u thank u also any other couple if ur not feeling fenhawke and you can change skyhold if u want

“Fenris, I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong,” she says, arms crossed, standing still even as he moves – back and forth, unable to stop, a hand pressed against his forehead. The other moves with the wordless argument he’s having with himself, the debate of silence, until he finally crashes into a step before her.

“You hate the deep roads,” he says, his hands falling to his sides.

“I do,” she says, half amused.

“And yet you insist on going back down into them. I remember how you were at Vimmark. The darkspawn and the deep roads disturbed you,” he says. She keeps her arms crossed, says nothing. She remembers that, as well. “You should not be going back.”

“Someone once told me that sometimes you should stop running from what you fear. Turn and face the tiger were his exact words, I believe,” she says.

“He sounds like a fool,” Fenris says flatly. She snorts a brief chuckle.

“Besides, it would mean a lot to Anders if I helped him find his friend. We were the ones who opened up those roads – we know those tunnels. We’re best suited to help,” Hawke says. Fenris reaches up, reaches out, and puts his hands on her arms. Whether he realizes it or not, his thumb is wearing soft circles against her.

“Not everything is your responsibility,” he says, “You do not have to go. If you must, then at least take me with you.”

“Really? I thought you’d prefer staying in the city,” she says. He lets her go, mirrors her stance. Arms crossed, relatively at ease.

“I would be best suited to protecting you from darkspawn.” The smile is slow but unstoppable, spreads across her face.

“You would go to the deep roads? Just for me?” She asks, almost slyly, stepping forward slightly.

“I – you would – Aveline needs to stay in Kirkwall since she is Captain now. It is necessary for someone to be on the front lines and I can fill that role,” he says.

“Mhmm- _hmm_ , it’s only because it’s the best tactical decision, right?” she says, tilting her head, still smiling, forcing herself into his wandering gaze. He rolls his eyes, reaches out, hands on her cheeks, squeezing her face together.

“Let me help protect you Hawke,” he tells her, his forehead pressed against hers. The briefest, fiercest, kiss, and he lets her go. Turning to walk towards the fireplace and she is quick to follow, wrapping arms around him, her head against his back.

“Alright,” she says, “but only because you’d get into all sorts of trouble without me. And not to mention you’d miss me  _terribly_.”

“Perhaps,” he says with the slightest smile, putting his hand over hers.


	139. Right Here (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: For the angst/fluff prompts, #22 for Zevran/f!mahariel ? You're the best and ur writing rocks~ “Don’t be scared, I’m right here.”

He lines her eyes with kohl. Two fingers, underneath her chin, tilting her face upwards. She is looking straight at him, while he is focusing on the line – heavy and dark, a steady hand, unwavering and true. He braids her hair. A multitude of them, turning and twisting, wrapping around in circles. He puts in small gold rings, trinkets and jewels. They make it ornate. They make her stand out. Helping her with her armor, the breastplate and the gauntlets, grieves and boots. She spent most of the night shining her shield, sharpening her spear. Their fingers touch when he hands it to her.

“Loghain will not want you to speak,” he says, “nor will he simply hand over his power.”

“If he demands a fight, then he will have a fight,” she says. “I will not back down from this.” Zevran smiles, cups her face in his hands. Leaning forward, a gentle kiss.

“And you will not have to be afraid, _amor_ , for I will not leave your side,” he says. Mahariel smiles, laughs, bumps her forehead against his.

“Loghain will be shaking in his boots when he sees you coming,” she says.

“Quite right,” he says, sheathing the dagger into his belt.

She walks through the throne room, and the crowd parts for her. Zevran at her side, and she stands in front of Loghain. Silence as she looks at the nobles, the soldiers, the lofty lords and ladies. “I know Ferelden,” she says, her voice echoing in the hall. “And a Ferelden under Loghain is not the Ferelden I love. To save his own power he would allow children to burn, darkspawn to flood the land, elves to be sold as slaves to Tevinter.” She turns back to face him.

“Loghain cares nothing for Ferelden. He only wants the crown,” she says. He sneers while she does not look away. Loghain’s soldiers begin to flank him, and Zevran wraps hands around the hilts of his daggers.


	140. Happy (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 34 for f!fenhawke? Thanks :) “It’s just you and me."

“This is a dream,” he says.

“What makes you say that?” She asks, her fingers over the keys as she sits beside him. They share that small bench together as she plays the harpsichord, an indulgence bought from Orlais. Hawke looks away from the page, at him, a smile on her lips. He leans forward as he closes his eyes, rests his head on his shoulder. The last note echoes as she raises her hand, scratching lightly at his head.

“I am too –” he frowns slightly “–happy.”

“Oh Fen.” Softly, the slightest sigh at the end of it. Turning to face him, and he raises his head and opens his eyes. A different feel to the smile she wears, as she tucks stray locks of hair behind his ear. “This is a dream,” she says. Putting a hand over his. “But even when you wake up, it won’t change.”

He opens his eyes, blinks in the darkness. Moonlight streams in through the window, and the last of the embers have turned to ash. He rolls over, a hand at her arm. Lips at her shoulder, and Hawke stirs. “Fen? What is it? Did you have a nightmare?” Slurred with sleep, rolling onto her back, opening her arms to him, pulling him in without thought. “Don’t worry,” she says, “it’s just you and me. Safe.” Mumbling into his hair, entwining their legs as she holds him close. Fenris smiles against her chest, settles in happily.


	141. Blame (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given:"nothing is wrong with you" for fenhawke plz and thanx ❤️

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Hawke says.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me,” he says, as he stands in the doorway. One hand lax against the frame and Fenris wavers on the threshold, hesitant as he steps through.

“But you did anyway,” he says as he smiles. Hawke is sitting on the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. The fire burns haphazardly, quickly made, poorly tended. Hawke sits back, sighs as he rubs his eyes. Fenris moves to stand by him, not close and not far, puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I hated her,” Hawke says, “for so much, for so long. I was the reminder of everything she left behind, but Carver and Bethany were everything she wanted. You know I practically raised them? Then she – _blames_ me. As if I didn’t care.” Hawke shakes his head. “I always thought we’d have time to make it right.” Fenris’s hand tightens on his shoulder.

“Now it’s too late and I still hate her,” Hawke laughs in a way that isn’t truly laughter. “Maybe there’s just something wrong with me.” Fenris steps closer, other hand on his other shoulder.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he tells him. Hawke looks up, and smiles at him. Fenris brushes away the silent tears that roll down his cheeks. Hawke closes his eyes, hands settling on his hips. Fenris doesn’t move, doesn’t shy away from it, and steps even closer. Allowing Hawke to wrap arms around him, hold him tightly, and hide his face against his belly. Fenris threads gentle fingers through his hair, light and comforting touches, as Hawke mourns his mother.


	142. Chess (Sera x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can we please just get platonic best friend cuddling between Dorian and f!inquisitor cause I’m in a fluffy mood and they are my favorite friends 

“You do realize I know how to play chess,” she says as she leans back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other. Tapping fingertips against the armrest as she raises an eyebrow, eyes the play he’s about to make.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Cullen,” he says, “no fun, the both of you.” Moving the piece in a legal way, as she chuckles under her breath.

“Did you know he lets me win? He thinks he’s being sly about it, but I can tell. Only when I cheat does he play seriously,” Adaar says as she leans forward and studies the board. “You know what you should do – play against Sera.” Reaching out, pushing the piece into the next square.

“Really,” Dorian says, rubbing his chin.

“She’s terrifyingly good,” she says. “I thought I’d have to teach her, but she beat me in about two minutes and then took me out for food. The fact that people underestimate her is their undoing. If I can arrange it, I would pay a large amount of coin to see her play against Solas.”

“How does everyone in the Inquisition know how to play chess? Bull knows it too, Leliana, Josephine… even Varric! I’m almost scared to ask Cole,” Dorian says. A piece moves against another, and one of hers is moved to the graveyard.

“Well, at least we know the Inquisition won’t run out of tacticians at any point,” she says, rubbing the knot between her brows. “And that they’re all probably relieved that I’m not in charge of troop movements. I give up. You win.”

“Finally,” Dorian says as he stands, “drink?”

“Yes please,” Adaar says, hands on her hips cracking her back five ways to Sunday. Distracted, eyes closed, she doesn’t notice the figure sneaking up behind her. Sera, climbing her like a tree, wrapping legs around her waist, and arms around her neck.

“Buckles! Did you win?” She asks. Adaar smiles, pats her hand.

“Sadly not. You’ll have to teach me,” she says.

“I’ve been told that I should play against you,” Dorian says as he joins them and Sera sticks out her tongue at him.

“You’re gonna lose!”

“We’ll see.”


	143. Infatuation (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: it’s nothing. it’s just an infatuation … it’s nothing. ❜ (Zev and the warden)

He remembers the last time he felt this way. It was dangerous then, perhaps even more so now. Even then, it was nothing like this. An ache, a desperate drum – a need, more than the want. He sits down on that fallen log, puts an elbow on his knee. Face in his hand, watching what he can’t hear. Surana and Sten, discussing something again. Not quite an argument but not quite a chat, and there’s a little knot between his brows as he talks. Brushing away that stray lock of hair that’s fallen free from his braid as he shakes his head, keeps his gaze focused. Zevran smiles at the sight of it.

“Careful Crow,” Morrigan says as she puts down the basket beside him. Standing tall and straight, crossing her arms as she raises her eyebrows. “You’ll give away the game.” Zevran leans back, hands on his knees, smiles up at her.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, o magical Morrigan,” he says.

“It is clever of you – attaching yourself to one who decides whether you live or die. But the Warden is more than fond of you by now.” Out of the corner of her eye, speaking plainly. “He will realize exactly how you feel. Then you will have to decide whether or not you are here because of the Crows, or because of him.” Zevran’s smile doesn’t waver. Morrigan scoffs, picks up her basket, and carries it off to her side of the camp.

Zevran’s gaze finds its way back to Surana. Finishing his conversation with Sten, looking over his shoulder, seeing him. A smile. A wave. Zevran returns them both. He remembers the last time he felt this way, but even then, it was nothing like this. An ache, a desperate drum – a need, more than the want. Zevran shakes his head. It’s nothing. It’s just an infatuation. It’s nothing.


	144. Together (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 96 from the angst prompt list for Zevwarden? “Please don’t be mad at me.”

It blooms macabre petals, shades of purple and blue, a deeper darkness that lurking underneath. Vines like sickly rivers, spreading, seeking, infecting over rib and belly, in bone and blood. Pressing fingertips against its very center, feeling the change in his skin. Looking in the mirror, letting his shirt fall back. Pressing his hand against the fabric, and like this, he could almost pretend that it isn’t there. He has ignored his calling for too long.

There’s a bag packed. Secretly done, lightly filled. He doesn’t need much, only to be quiet. In faded moonlight glow, he stops by the bed. Harder to leave when he sees him there. He reaches out, brushes back the stray hair that falls across Zevran’s face. Streaks of grey in it now, lines of life on his face. They’ve shared so much together, but this he must do alone. Leaning over, lips gently pressed against his cheek. “Please don’t be mad at me,” he murmurs, “I love you.”

He doesn’t make it far. Almost out of the castle gates when he hears him. It isn’t a shout, it’s not a plea. “My Warden,” so calmly spoken. He turns, and his heart aches to see him there. Barefoot in the courtyard, still dressed for sleeping. Holding out his hand, “come to me.” His ribs tighten, his lungs squeeze out what air remains and he cannot move. Urgent in the way he says, “Please,” a tremble in his hand. He cannot go back but neither can he go forward, so Zevran comes to him instead.

“ _Mi amor_ ,” he says, taking his hand in his. Raising it to his lips, kisses against his knuckles. “You would leave me behind?”

“I don’t – I don’t want you to see what I become. It would be better if you remembered me… how I was,” he says. Zevran shakes his head.

“I do not want to see what life looks like without you. I am coming with you.” He opens his mouth to protest but Zevran gives his hand a small squeeze, the other reaching upwards. Curling fingers at his cheeks, softly smiling, a kiss firmly planted. “I am coming with you. This, as with all other things, we face together,” he tells him.  


	145. Return (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Let's see some hurt and angry Fenris at Skyhold when Hawke etc. return from the Fade...

An army marches home. Scorched by battle, burdened by desert sand. The songs and the tales, they always speak of the going. To a future uncertain, to a fight filled with glory. They trudge over hill, through valley, bloodied, beaten, victorious. They return without friends. They return without lovers. Some would rather not return at all. Some are still on the battlefield. Moments, haunting memories, over and over, behind a blankly blinking gaze. They turn in their weapons, their armor. They wash away the blood, drink away the rest. Most of all, they sleep. Hawke runs a hand through her hair as she stands in the courtyard.

She’s still in her armor. The staff is in her hands. Her back aches, her feet are sore. The limbs of her tremble with exhaustion, dark circles under her eyes. She slowly makes her way up the stairs. It’s the guards who told her first. Finding her and her alone, away from all the rest, telling her that someone has come to Skyhold. Someone has waited for their return. Someone is waiting for her. She doesn’t need a name, a description, to know who it is. Opening the door, and he looks up from the fire. Closing the door, and he turns to face her. She leans the staff against the wall, shrugs the bag from her shoulder.

“You promised you would stay. That you wouldn’t get involved. That you would not – you wouldn’t leave me behind,” he says. He’s biting back the anger, but more than that, he’s holding back the hurt. His knuckles press against the table. “I woke up, and found you gone. I thought the Templars had taken you somehow, and I – you left a letter. A letter, Hawke. After everything, was all I deserved a letter?” His bangs are long and wild, moving over his forehead, long dark lashes. The knot between his brows, and a frown hangs on his lips.

“I was afraid,” looking away from her, closing his eyes, “that you would not return. The early reports coming from Adamant were… troubling. I thought I would never hear your voice again.”

“Fenris,” hoarse from lack of use, broken from the sight of him. Hawke steps forward and he slowly looks back towards her. A hand on his shoulder and she closes the distance between them. “I’m sorry,” she says. Wrapping arms around him, pressing against him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He smells like the mountains, free air and evergreens. He smells like home, lavender and old books, ink spilled and apple sweet. “I know you’re angry but please – later. Please.”

Without hesitation, he holds her tight. “Hawke,” he says quietly, “my Marian.”


	146. The Other Guy (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "You should see the other guy" with modern fenhawke perhaps?"

He saddles the heavy vest over her shoulder, gently arranges her arm on the table. There’s dried blood smeared on her face, evidence of the nosebleed, remnants of the cut lip. He doubts she realizes there’s a leaf stuck in her hair, dirt on her cheek and grass stains on her knees. She looks up at him and grins as he sets her broken arm in place, to take the x-ray. “You should see the other guy,” she says as she leans towards him, gives him a small wink. Fenris raises an eyebrow.

“You mean the roof?” He asks. She sighs, leans back in the chair, defeated.

“Damn, and here I thought I would impress you,” she says.

“What were you doing on the roof in the first place? Out of curiosity.” Arm set where he needs it to be, Fenris stands up straight and looks at her. 

“Would you believe my dog somehow got up there? I almost had a heart attack when I came home and he barked at me,” she says. “Of course, I got him back in safely but then – woosh, lost my balance and down I went. I’m just glad I didn’t crush my phone.”

“Just your arm… and your face.”

“Quite right, but at least I could call for a ride! Speaking of which, you know, since it’s in working order – knowing someone who works in the hospital could come in handy,” she says. She’s still wearing the grin, completely undeterred by the state she’s in. “All I request is that you don’t put me in your contact list as Fell Off A Roof Girl or something.”

“You say that as though it’s a guarantee you’ll be in my contact list,” he says, and her smile is infectious.

“You know what sounds good right now? Dinner. Once I get this sweet cast and you sign your name and number on it, I would really enjoy taking you out to dinner,” she says.

“Hawke.” They both look around to the door, where Aveline is glaring daggers. “Are you seriously – are you _flirting_ with the x-ray tech? I swear to god I’m going to come over there and break your other arm.”

“See?” Hawke says to Fenris, “another reason why I need your number. So the next time I fall off a roof, I can skip the middleman and call you directly.”

“We shall see,” Fenris tells her, the smile still lingering as he begins to leave.

“That’s not a no!” She calls after his back. 


	147. Taking Care (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: If you’re doing prompts how about fenris and Hawke with “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m going to take care of you.”

She raises arms above her head as she stretches, feet pressing into the coffee table. Across the way, in that armchair, his eyes leave the page, the words he has been reading. The hem of her shirt raises as she curls, mewling a noise of satisfaction as her back cracks. There, on her belly, he can see it. Sometimes he forgets it’s even there. A simple gesture as she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her tunic slips off her shoulder, revealing the pattern of stars that freckle underneath. Another simple gesture, to reach for it, to put it back. All such easy things, but they are reminders that this is a Hawke no one else sees.

A privilege to know her, to be near her, and Fenris is closing the book. Putting it on the table as he passes, as he kneels before her. “Hello,” she says, as she reaches out, threads fingers through his hair. He’s leaning forward, reaching for the bottom of her shirt. Rolling it up, gentle fingertips tracing the scar over her belly. “Ugly, isn’t it.” Fenris shakes his head as his hands slide over her hips, the curve of her, and presses a line of kisses along the scar.

He remembers the panic of it. The weeks of worry that came after. A brilliant reminder of all Hawke is, all she stands for, all the things she’s willing to do. But Hawke has done enough. “I think it suits you,” he says. His hand, slipping under her shirt once again, brushing over the line. “I would prefer you not fight in any more duels, however.” She snorts laughter as Fenris pulls her closer, as he stretches upwards, finds her lips with his.

“Really? And then what will I do about the next one who comes to claim our city?” she asks him with a smile.

“I will fight them for you,” he tells her. She cups his face in her hands, puts a fluttering kiss at the tip of his nose.

“I appreciate the sentiment. How about we agree to face whatever comes together?” She asks. Palm against palm, linking fingers together. Leaning forward, a kiss to the knuckle of her thumb. Looking up at her under long dark lashes, all the fierce green of him. He’s never had anything of his own before, but this is his Hawke, his family, and he would protect her. Take care of her.

“Together,” he says.


	148. At Your Back (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: If these are prompts can you write 44 with zevran/m!amell? I honestly love your writing it's the best! Thank you!! “Don’t leave me behind.”

“There is a waterfall in Antiva,” he says. “Surrounded by lush forest, and a brilliantly clear pool. The last time I was there, I had just stolen away the crown jewels of the thirteenth prince. There was an arrow in my shoulder, you see, and so I could not make it all the way back to the rendezvous.” Caught in the memory of it, whether he realizes he’s doing it or not, Zevran reaches up and rubs his shoulder slightly. Amell smiles at the sight of it. They face each other, sitting in the grass, and Amell is playing with the loose threads at the edges of his robe.

“I buried the chest underneath the biggest water lily I could see. Such magnificent cattails lined the pool, and there were such bright fish in the water. I wonder if the chest is still there,” he says. Amell barks out laughter.

“You left it there?”

“My dear Warden, you would not believe the kind of day I was having,” Zevran says with a smirk. “It was an impossibility to go back for it. I did tell my senior Crows where it was but,” Zevran waves a dismissive hand, “it is unlikely they believed me. Perhaps one day I will go back to that waterfall, and see if my fortune awaits.”

“Do I get to come with you?” Asking it with a smile, and Zevran reaches out puts his hand over his.

“Of course! I could not leave you alone – you would get yourself into too many dangerous things without me, I fear,” he says. More laughter as Amell leans forward, shifting to his knees. Hands on Zevran’s shoulders, pushing him back to lie in the grass. Pining him down beneath him, tracing the line of his jaw.

“I think I get into more dangerous situations with you,” he says.

“Perhaps. But at least I am there to protect you. Don’t ever leave me behind, _amor_ , for I will follow anyway. Your back is safe with me,” Zevran tells him. Amell smiles agreement as he leans down, presses lip against lip, tastes him on his tongue.  


	149. With You (Sebastian x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Would you write “I know my duty to them—and to you. I’m here. And wherever you go… I will follow.” for Sebhawke? Thank you so much if you do!! Hope you're having a wonderful day :)

The letter is given to her with extended hand and low bow, and she smiles as she takes it. Varric’s handwriting is so easily recognizable, and it’s an almost comforting thing to see her name written. It’s been a change, leaving Kirkwall, but not one that she regrets. Sitting against the windowsill, and outside the window, she hears laughter. Green in the distance, the lush and the moss that surrounds the city. Banners flutter between buildings, bright and loud, over wide and steady streets. Starkhaven is home now, and she’s finally beginning to feel it.

Tearing open the envelope, pulling out the letter. They always start the same way. _Hello birdie_. This letter however, takes a turn from the usual pleasantries. It’s been impossible not to hear the whispers. The Chantry on the move, Seekers in every city. Searching for something they will not name, closing around the Free Marches. Now, they surround Kirkwall. Varric thinks it’s the last letter he’ll be able to send for some time. He knows he will be questioned. He tells her they’ll come to Starkhaven next. He tells her to run.

Under a warm sun, the goosebumps ripple over her. Hawke shoves the letter back into the envelope, turns and tries not to race down the hallways. Quickly weaving around those that pass, thoughts elsewhere, not hearing those that greet her. Past the Great Hall, to that one room, and those seated look up as she enters. Sebastian takes one look and, “thank you for coming. We’ll continue next week.” He dismisses them with a smile, one that falters as the door closes behind the last one. Closing the distance between them, a hand at her arm. “Hawke. What is it?”

“Varric’s sent me a warning. The Chantry is in Kirkwall. They’re coming here next – for me,” she says, “I have to leave.”

“Surely, with my influence, I can keep them at bay,” Sebastian tells her softly.

“Can you really stop an Exalted March?” she asks, the knot between her brows. Studying her closely, Sebastian’s hand is moving up and down – comforting and thoughtful, and before he speaks, it settles.

“Then we’ll go. We can leave tonight,” he says.

“I can’t ask you to do this. To come with me? Your life is in Starkhaven,” she says. Sebastian smiles.

“My life,” he says, taking her hands in his, “is with you.” Raising them upwards, bending down, and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “I know my duty to my city – and to you. Wherever you choose to go, Hawke, I will follow.”

“Your advisors wouldn’t be happy to hear that,” she says quietly. Sebastian is still smiling, takes her face in his hands.

“Let me worry about them.” Thumbs move gently over her cheekbones. “Let me worry about you,” he says.  


	150. Rain, Quiet (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hey Lisa! Would be alright if I ask for more chronic illness fenhawke? I’ve been seeing a lot of that lately, and just just want something fluffy and sweet, if possible. Thank you, you’re the best <3

He turns the page with his thumb. Slightly awkward, a bit hard to do, but he doesn’t mind. Hawke’s head on his lap, curled up on the couch together, and with his free hand, Fenris threads fingers through his hair. Tracing the shell of his ear, fingertips that lightly move over his scalp. Hawke is quiet under his touch, having fallen asleep. Plagued by a morning headache, the afternoon ache, and the evening finally brings quiet. The fire burns steady, Fenris turns another page, and on his thigh, Hawke’s fingers twitch in dreaming.

His gaze slips frequently from the page. Content more to look at Hawke, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, the one leg that hangs over the armrest of the couch. The other curled up underneath him, the blanket thrown over him haphazardly – or at least, the best Fenris could reach. The rain was in Hawke more today than usual, and what Fenris would give to be able to part those clouds for him. Closing the book, putting it on the table beside them. One hand joins the other as Fenris hunches over, gently presses a kiss to Hawke’s temple.

Moving back as Hawke’s eyelashes flutter, and he begins to twist. Rolling over onto his back, still blinking away the haze. “How long have I been asleep?” He asks, voice still hoarse with it as he reaches up, rubs his eyes, and pinches the space between his brows.

“Not that long,” Fenris tells him.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been a really poor host, haven’t I?” Hawke asks as he links hands over his stomach, gives Fenris a sheepish look. He only shakes his head.

“It’s fine, Hawke. Besides, while you slept you said some – interesting – things,” he says. Hawke’s eyebrows instantly rise.

“What did I say?” He asks. Fenris only gives him a sly grin. “No, no, come on, you have to tell me.” Laughter as Hawke is rushing to sit up, that pleading gaze, the beg in the pout of his lips.

“It’s my secret,” Fenris says as he leans forward, captures his lips with his, draws Hawke into the kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks prompt #500 that I've filled. My prompt document is now 575 pages, with 292,388 words. I couldn’t have imagined I’d get this far when I was writing my first. I’m so grateful to have started, and I doubt I’ll ever be finished. I’m so happy to write for this community, and for the other communities I’ve written for. I’m more grateful than I can say.


	151. A Ritual (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a friend, based on [this picture](https://lynngo-art.tumblr.com/post/174039683529/11-if-the-dark-ritual-was-performed-how-did)

“Close your eyes,” she says, “and pretend I am your lover.” It must be so plain in him, on his face. She reaches for his wrists, and crosses his arms over his face. Pressing them tightly against him, so that none can see the knot between his brows, but he cannot hide the way he bites his lip. Squeezing his eyes closed underneath the pressure, but still he knows. Her touch is so much different. It’s not her that makes his skin crawl, but the act of it, the knowledge of what they’re doing. “Remember why you do this.” It doesn’t help. It only makes it worse. He is stained by it, her fingers on his skin. This is something that cannot be undone. This is something selfish.

Zevran liberates a bottle from the kitchens. Stolen right from underneath the watchful gaze of the head butler, he holds the neck of it as he makes his way down the corridor. He knows what the night before a battle feels like. The thrill of it, the fear of it, all things that can be eased by pleasant alcohol and even better company. He rounds the corner with a smile on his face, and his steps falter to a stop. Morrigan, closing the door to his room behind her, a sheet wrapped around her. She looks up, catches his gaze. For long, unbroken moments, they look at each other.

It’s Morrigan who turns away first, a curl of dark hair against her cheek as she breaks the gaze. Bare feet against cobble, and she walks down the hallway. A hand on the doorknob to her own room, and she purses her lips. On the threshold of speaking, decides against it. Morrigan disappears inside the darkness, and Zevran’s eyes slip from her door to Rémi’s. He settles the bottle on the table very near him, his hands shaking. Some white hot anger pierces his belly, reaching deepest. This knife is all that holds back the grief that threatens to flood him. Stalking forward, and the door gives way to his touch.

Rémi, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hair like a veil around him. Naught but that blanket draped haphazardly over his legs, hunched and small where he is. Looking up, eyes red-rimmed and wide. Guilt-stricken in the way he presses a fist against his chest. “Betrayal. After everything,” Zevran says, the ache in every word, hoarse and rough and raw, “after the _earring_.” The flood, just there, at the gates, and the knife twists and the anger rises in its place. “How could you?” From his chest to his face, Rémi presses hands against his eyes. Hunching over, his head almost at his knees.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just wanted more time. I wanted to be with you. I don’t want to die, I didn’t want to –” Quick mumbles, barely audible, hardly spoken, tangled in his mouth, desperate on his tongue. Zevran quietly watches him tremble, listens to his every word, and the stiff line of him gives. Anger directed elsewhere, the knife of it pulled out swift and clean. Zevran’s shoulders slowly ease, rooted feet moving forward, sinking to sit on the bed beside him. Lifting up Rémi’s frame carefully, and Zevran reaches for his wrists and pulls his hands away from his face.

“You had best tell me everything,” Zevran says softly. Brushing away the wild wisps of hair that stray, holding Rémi’s face in his hand. Rémi leans forward, tears clinging to his lashes, a hand pressed against the bed to steady himself. “I’m not angry, Caro. I just want an explanation.”


	152. Barbs (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: #70 “Do you trust me? Fenris and M!Hawke :)

It takes him in the left. Hawke stumbles backwards as the arrow tears through, embeds itself deep in his flesh. Strangely, he doesn’t feel it – or at least not where it’s hit. Instead it’s more of cold in his spine, dread in the heart of him. The pain is a thunderclap, the echo after the shock of it, and Hawke cries out as he goes to his knees. Falling back against the rock, and he winces as he raises his hand to feel around the wound. The stem is hard, unyielding, and when Hawke pulls his hand away, he finds it wet with blood.

Aveline yells forward, shield raised, sword cutting wide. She and Fenris handle the rest of the bandits with ease, while Anders falls to Hawke’s side. He presses hard against the wound, blood bubbling between his fingers. Pressing against it and Hawke leans his head back, groans and struggles to hold back worse. “I can feel it. It’s barbed,” he says. Aveline is sheathing her sword as she makes her way towards them. Anders looks up at her, “I can’t pull it out without shredding everything on the way out. I could cut it out, but that might make it worse.”

Aveline frowns as she crouches down at Hawke’s other side. “You couldn’t catch this one measly arrow properly?” She asks it with a smile. He laughs weakly in return, something interrupted by a wheeze of pain.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he says. Fenris is watching them at their work, a respectful distance given, but close enough for Hawke to see the concern so clearly written in every line on his face. Anders wraps his hand around the stem, moving the arrow carefully, testing the limits of his give. Hawke squeezes his eyes shut, his hands in fists at his sides, knuckles white.

“You’re hurting him,” Fenris says, breaking the silence. Anders rolls his eyes as he sharply turns his head to look at him.

“I can’t do anything without it hurting him. But I have to get it out before I can heal him,” he says. Fenris’s eyes narrow. Careful steps forward, and Aveline moves so that Fenris can take her place. He leans forward, over Hawke, and his hand replaces Anders’s. The stem between his fingers, his hand light against his chest.

“I can remove it,” Fenris says, and then quieter, meant for only Hawke, “trust me.” He does. Hawke nods, watching him through hazy vision. His markings cast a glow on his skin, lyrium coming alight. A ghosting touch, moving through Hawke’s skin. He wraps his fist around the barbed arrowhead, and pulls it out cleanly. The lyrium hum fades, the glow goes with it. Anders is immediately there once again, his hands glowing with a magic of his own, stitching skin back together, healing the wound. Fenris doesn’t make a sound as he stands, walks a few paces away, and opens his fist.

The barbs are stuck in his skin, and Fenris keeps his back to the others as he clenches his jaw tights. He pulls the arrowhead free, barb by barb, and casts it to the ground. Small pricks in his palm, blood that begins to pool. So focused on it, he doesn’t realize that Anders has finished, that Aveline has pulled Hawke to his feet, that Hawke has made his way toward him. “This damn arrow,” Hawke says as Fenris blinks, startled by his sudden presence, “a pain for all of us.” Right in front of him, cupping Fenris’s hand in his. “May I?” Fenris slowly nods.

Hawke is not quite as skilled a healer as Anders, but Fenris far prefers his magic to any other. It is kind and careful, measured and true. He watches as the bleeding stops, as skin repairs itself, and Hawke uses his sleeve to wipe away the last flecks of blood. “I’m sorry about this but – thank you for helping me,” Hawke says as he lets his hands fall back to his side.

“Of course,” Fenris says, and his own slowly falls as well.  


	153. Consequences (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a friend: a possible future - bad ending

A subtle shift. Moments very unlike him, strange phrases he’s never spoken before. Movements not his own, piercing glances that seem to belong to another. Leliana believes it to be the stress of the situation. Cullen thinks it must be the weight of war against an old friend. Josephine endeavors to make his load lighter, arranges meetings with potential allies herself. Dorian knows it to be something more. He finds his touch cold, his love empty.

They plan their tactics, stratagems. Where Mahanon might have once offered up ideas, criticisms, he now remains silent. He listens, and he watches. They plan an important battle, one to break Solas’s army. Dorian is meant to be the fulcrum and he can feel Mahanon’s gaze upon him. He is some blank parchment, and Dorian’s can’t tell who’s doing the writing. They go to bed together, but Dorian doesn’t sleep. He hears it first, that slice through the air.

 

They knew the Well would have consequences.

 

Dorian rolls out of the bed just as the knife stabs through his pillow. Mahanon’s eyes glow blue, an oceanic expanse, seas that don’t belong to him. “Mahanon,” Dorian says from the floor, looking up at him kneeling on the bed. Watching him there, studying him carefully, and Mahanon does the same to him. Predator watching prey and Dorian scrambles to his feet as Mahanon moves towards him. The knife turns and turns in his hand, and not once does his expression change. Emptied, filled with someone else’s intent.

Fleeing out into the hallway, racing down the steps. Mahanon walks slowly after him, puts a hand on the railing. He leaps down without a care, without a thought and Dorian thinks he sees his ankle twist. A doll, meant for the breaking. Charging forward, blade caught by barrier. “Stop this!” Rolling out of the way of Dorian’s lightning, racing to the right of him and he only barely manages to move out of the way in time. A cut, across Dorian’s cheek, quietly red tears.

Stabbing forth, again and again, and Dorian can’t bring himself to fight back in earnest. “I can’t do this,” Dorian says, “don’t make me do this.” Mahanon’s hair is wild, falling from that messy bun, curling around his face. Dorian’s always loved his hair. Jaw clenched, mouth in a narrow line but Dorian knows those lips. How they laugh, how they smile, how they kiss. The knife in his hand made of wood, but Dorian has only ever felt its softness, kindness, tender in the heart of it.

“I love you, please –” Mahanon’s steps falter. Freezing in motion, the knife trembling in air. Blue flickers, some questioning blink. “ _Amatus_ , please, fight this. I know you don’t want to hurt me,” Dorian pleads. Mahanon’s hands fall to his sides. The whole of him seems to go slack, but the Well’s glow doesn’t fade.

“No,” Mahanon says, “I don’t.” Raising the blade, pressing it against his own throat.


	154. Weakest (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 62. “Please, don’t cry.” for the pairing of your choice? This is the first time I sent you a prompt aslfkjsdkl I still love your writing so much <3

It starts in the middle. Just there, in the chest of her, over the bone. The faintest flower of a thing, and it could almost be mistaken for a bruise. Almost, but for the twisting vines, poisoned veins, a taint that spreads under her skin. With every mournful breath, it blooms. Fingertips pressing against it, feeling nothing out of the ordinary. He finds her standing in front of the mirror, her tunic only half buttoned up and fingers pressing hard against the taint. Moving behind her, hands on her arms and a kiss to her neck. Wrapping arms around her, holding her tightly, as they both look at it. “I thought I’d have more time,” she says.

“We still do,” he tells her, “we’ll find the cure.”

“If there is one,” she says.

“You cannot be optimistic, hmm? No? Just this once?” He says it with a smile, and she chuckles under her breath. Resting his chin on her shoulder as they sway together. They still fit together, pieces of a puzzle, some better half, and she is where she belongs, her in his arms. “Still as beautiful as when I first laid eyes on you, _amor_ ,” he murmurs. All the lines and scars of things they’ve seen, places they’ve been, the life they have lived together.

“Charmer.” She turns to face him, gives him a familiar and easy kiss. “I should finish getting ready,” she says, slipping from his arms as she does up the rest of the buttons. Leaving the room, and only when she’s gone does he notice the tremble in the line of him. Sinking slowly, he finds himself suddenly sitting on the floor, a hand over his mouth.

The taint was always some distant thing. A worry for the future, never for the now. Seeing it has made it real, and he can feel the sick turning in his gut, the terror in his throat. Squeezing his eyes closed and he tells himself not to cry – she will need him at his strongest, for this. She will need him at his strongest, but for now he is weakest. Their time spent fighting Darkspawn is always near in his mind and those creatures – he will not lose her to this. He cannot lose her to this. Zevran curls in around himself, his hands still tremble, and he heaves a sobbing breath.


	155. Writing (Sera, Josephine, F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: How is it you do angst so well? How? Tell me! Ok can I request F!inquisitor with Sera/Josie post-arm chopping? Give me the angst, all of it. :D Thank you!!

“It is important for the Inquisitor to be able to _write_ , dominant hand or not!” The quill trembles in her hand, and the parchment bunches underneath her fist. Unsteady as she struggles to form a single letter, ink blotchy and stained. Her hand will not _obey_ , no matter how hard she concentrates. Everything has become so damnably difficult now and there are times – reaching to smooth out the parchment, forgetting that she can’t. Empty air, feeling fingers that don’t exist, moving a wrist that isn’t there anymore. Josephine is bristling at Sera, holding the letters to her chest.

“Dun see what the big deal is. You can just write ‘em for her,” Sera says, raising her arms up, linking them behind her head.

“The big deal is that a personal letter coming from the Inquisitor herself will have far more meaning than one coming from a liaison!” Josephine tells her. Sera shrugs.

“I’ll write it then,” she says.

“You?!”

“Enough,” the Inquisitor sighs as she lets the quill fall. “I’m done for today.”

“Already? But –” Josephine pauses as the Inquisitor stands, closes the distance between them, and rests her head on her shoulder. Josephine quickly throws her papers onto the desk and wraps arms around her. “You’re right. It’s been a long day,” she says. Her hand moves in soothing circles on her back, and Sera sneaks closer to them. Arms around the others, and the three of them huddle closer together.

“I don’t know if I can do this. Not just the writing. All of it,” she says quietly.

“You can,” Josephine tells her.

“We’ll help too, yeah?” Sera says, burying her face down close, knocking head against head.


	156. Wanting, Forgiven (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Mmmmm 15 for fenhawke would be lovely 

The staff turns in her hands as she makes her approach – hard on the left foot, pushing forward, knuckles white around wood, a crack, the snap, his skull, the blood. Turning, shifting on the right foot, raising a hand, palm out, lightning webs between her fingers, arcs towards the next – a crack, the snap, his bones, the blood. Three steps forward, hand clenched into a fist, thrusting upwards and they go upwards in it. Pulling her fist and the hard push downwards, a crack, the snap, their bodies, their blood. “She’s only one apostate! Kill her!” One shouts, and Hawke glares at all the rest. Nevertheless, they converge. Planting her feet, stance wide, and the staff turns in her hands.

Carrying the bag on his shoulder, and Fenris makes his way through the wood. He can feel it before he sees it. Lingering magic that hangs in the air, the stillness after a storm. His markings ache with it, and he breaks into a run. To that clearing where they had planned to meet, and he has one hand on the hilt of his sword. Over the first body, and the next, patches of scorched grass, arrows embedded in dirt, and lightning marked trees. Looking everywhere, looking for her, and he finds her sitting on the ground. Hunched over, head lowered, limp and lifeless against that rock.

The bag drops from his shoulders, his sword as well, as he crouches down beside her. Reaching forward with unsteady hands, lifting up her face. Bloodstained and tired, she opens her eyes slowly. He lets out the breath he was holding, his thumb brushing across her cheek. “You’re late,” she says with a weary smile.

“Apologies,” he says as he shoulders his bag once again, the sword, her staff. Reaching down, at her back and under her legs, lifting her into his arms. She lets her head rest against his shoulder, closes her eyes once again.

“Forgiven,” she murmurs. In the small cabin they now call their home, a far distance from Kirkwall, Fenris lowers her gently onto the couch. Filling the pit with wood, tinder and flint, starting the fire. His sword and her staff lean against the wall, that bag of fresh supplies on the kitchen counter. He takes a fresh towel, dips it in water. Kneeling down beside the couch, washing away the blood from her face. She barely stirs under his touch, and when he puts a hand on her arm, he barely feels any trace of mana. Usually so rich with it, a resource endless, it will take some time to replenish.

Deft hands at the straps of her armor, stripping away gauntlet and greave, chest plate, belt and hood. All the things that might cause her discomfort, and she groans as he helps her sit up. Wrapping the robe around her, that still wet towel over arm and leg, erasing any sign of the battle. Pulling up the blanket, tucking it in around her. He finds one of the books buried in one of the bags, lifts her feet to sit on the couch, letting them rest back on his lap. Lost in words, in chapters and pages, it’s hard to say how long it is until Hawke stirs.

Shifting as she stretches, rubs a hand against her eyes and struggles to wake. Fenris closes the book, lets it rest on the table. “Were you worried?” She asks. He nods.

“Although I know you are capable,” he says, “I still worry.” She smiles.

“One day you’re going to be sick of it, and you’re not going to want me anymore,” she teases. Shifting where she is, sitting up slightly, and the robe slips off her shoulder. His eyes glance towards it, before moving back to her face. A flicker of a different sort of smile crosses her lips.

“I’m always going to want you,” he tells her. There’s some somber relief in having Hawke awake and talking. He loves the sound of her voice, the way one stubborn strand of hair falls across her face. The freckles that dust across her cheeks, her shoulder – all of it, every inch of her. He’s turning from where he sits, pulling off the blanket, hands parting her legs as he lies between them, leans over her. One hand bracing himself against the couch, the other at the nape of her neck. “You have no idea how much I want you right now.” Low, against her lips, almost a groan shuddered and Hawke closes her eyes, links arms around his neck.


	157. Little Talks (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: F!warden or yours and zevran "ive missed out little talks"

They make a ceremony of it. There’s such a need to celebrate her sacrifice. They tell him that it will get easier but he never wants it to be easy. He carries her like a weight they will not bear, and there are days when he feels that he’s the only one who mourns, who misses. It’s a part of who he is now. Such platitudes they give him, songs of better places, tales of some godly comfort. Some say it is a bridge that only the dead may cross and she has walked it without him. They’ve taken her soul away, these gods to whom he cannot pray.

They build statues, gather around monuments, but Zevran buries her in a field. Underneath a tree, where he had pierced her ears. He still has his, and the other is below the dirt. Putting a hand to that cold earth, fingers through grass and the flowers that he’s planted. “I have been long away,” he murmurs. He travels far, continues the life she wanted him to live, but always returns once a year. This same spot, this same place, bringing wine and food for two. Sitting against the tree, and that breeze runs through the field of wheat, through leaves.

He tells her of all the things he’s done. The Crows he’s killed in Antiva, stealing into the Ferelden palace to steal gold from Alistair, sending informative letters to Leliana. He tells her of Wynne, her son, the rebellion, and he can almost imagine her sitting across from him. Legs crossed, wearing that small smile. Fingers picking at the grass as she listens, and he leans forward. “I have missed our little talks, _amor_ ,” he tells her, “I should visit more often.” She opens her mouth, gives him some reply, but all he hears is that breeze, the rustling of leaves.


	158. Parties (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: ❛ the difference between you and i is that you can leave anytime you choose. ❜ Inquisitor and Dorian

There was a refusal to wear some uniform, and so bare feet walk across a marble hall. Decidedly Dalish, a blend of Inquisition imagery, and one of Dorian’s cloaks over his left shoulder. He keeps his back straight, his shoulders square, and walks towards Celene with his head held high. Lavellan does not bow low, but only politely enough. He is not here to make enemies, but nor is he here to make the Inquisition slave to this royal power. Lavellan finds him in the courtyard after, carrying two drinks in his hand.

Handing one to Dorian, taking a sip from the other. “Why Inquisitor,” Dorian says, “it doesn’t seem like you’re enjoying yourself.” The smile flickers behind the glass as he lowers it, and Lavellan takes a step closer.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Most people here would rather not be. So don’t worry, you’re in sympathetic company.”

“Yourself included?”

“The night _is_ still young. Things could get – more exciting later,” Dorian says.

“And if it doesn’t, you could still leave anytime you chose,” Lavellan says. The _vallaslin_ moves with the smile, careful dotted lines, and his eyes glitter with mischief. Taking another drink, champagne on his lips, on his tongue, and he crosses one arm under the other. Feet in the grass of the courtyard, tight leggings, and a snake that curls around his shoulder. A mark, a token, a sign that the Inquisitor is taken.

“You wouldn’t survive without me,” Dorian tells him.

Reaching out, a hand on Dorian’s arm, and Lavellan leans forward. Masks turn towards them, but Lavellan doesn’t seem to notice, seem to care, as he murmurs, “perhaps you’re right,” so lowly spoken, “and perhaps we could make things more exciting now.” Dorian can taste the champagne, still on Lavellan’s tongue.


	159. Writing (Varric x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a friend

A darkly spilling river over pillows, the stray streams of hair that wisp across her face. One leg tangled under the blanket, silk that curls around her. Tunic slipped up her belly, her hands against her skin. Face slightly turned, eyes peacefully closed, and Hawke sleeps deeply. The window slightly open, and breeze that flutters curtains slips through. Sunlight flickering behind it, dancing over her. It’s the birds that draw his attention away from his papers, scattered on the bed before him, around him, a quill in his hands and ink scratching over parchment. Mornings come so quick, these days.

Glasses perched at the end of his nose, and he takes them off, lets them rest on the nightstand. The quill as well, in that inkwell, and he squeezes his eyes closed, pinches the bridge between them. Burning behind his eyelids, and the ache of sleeplessness is quick to make itself known. Rubbing his eyes before he sighs, and lets his hand fall. Looking at all the papers around him, and the ones gathered on his lap, and he’s almost created himself a cage.

He’s never thought himself particularly good at it, the writing, it was always something he simply did. Story for story’s sake, and this is the first one that feels important. Papers filled with Hawke’s life, the tale they will tell to the Chantry that hunts her. Enough truth to make it believable, and the lies meant to keep her and their friends safe. They do not mention this one thing, this particular entanglement, a secret kept between them, meant for no one else but them.

Stealing the papers from his lap, throwing them to the side, where she just was. They land heavy, but a few of the top sheets flutter and disappear over the edge of the bed. Hawke plants a knee on one side of him, and the next at the other, puts her hand on his face. “You stayed up all night again, didn’t you?” she says. He chuckles as his hands settle on her thighs, looks up at her. Such a difference, in sleep. Free and weightless, lost in dreaming. In the morning, the burdens have yet to settle, but the dark circles under her eyes warn of the worries yet to wake.

“You caught me,” he says, and the smile flickers. Her thumbs over his cheeks, and she’s leaning down, wrapping arms around him. Hawke hugs him close, holds him tightly, and Varric slips his hands underneath her tunic, on her back, fingertips over each bump of her spine. “Trying to figure out where we should say we met the Starkhaven mages.”

“Just say we met them in a cave,” Hawke mumbles into his shoulder, “somewhere on the Wounded Coast or whatever.” Varric laughs as she leans back.

“Not everything can take place in a cave,” he says.

“Why not?” She asks with a grin that says she knows perfectly why. Raising arms above her head, stretching out with a contented mewl. “I mean, if they believe the Orsino bit then they can believe a few caves.” A sigh when she relaxes out, playing with the buttons at his shirt, resting her forehead against his. There’s a page crumpled, crumbled, under her knee, but they both pay it no mind. Not as her fingers slip through the stubble on his face, as she licks her lips. She has her bags packed at the door. They wait for the warning, and know that she could leave at any time. It makes him want to hold onto her even more.

His stories protect her but he cannot protect her, go with her. They know there’s a chance of the Chantry taking him to speak to the Divine. They’ve both agreed he should go either way, plead the case against a Divine March. “What a mess,” he says, so low and quiet, but she hums agreement and closes her eyes. These moments to be together are so few and far in between. Too busy with rebuilding Kirkwall, helping Aveline bolster the guard. He’s scared of what might happen to her, to them, although he doesn’t tell her this. He thinks she might know.

He can feel her own fear in her spine, her shoulders, and her hands. The waking has landed fully, and as she opens her eyes, her oceans swirl with deeper and inconsolable conflict. Tilting his face upwards towards her, and she reciprocates the asking, returns the kiss. Pulling her bottom lip between his, a hand splayed at her back. Hawke always tastes sweet, sugar sprinkled over pastry, and he’s undoing the buttons of her tunic. One by one, up and up, until it folds open.

Hands on her waist, over the curve of her, a breast heavy in his palm. Rolling it underneath his touch, and her hips move against his. She deepens the kiss, breathes against him, and presses tongue against tongue. Explorative and urgent, her hands at the lacings of his trousers. She had only been wearing that long tunic to bed – he had been making sure she had no use for anything else. A need that can’t be quenched as time grows shorter, taking the pleasure from each other time and time again. Unable to be apart, a relationship under guise of partnership. No one mentions the nights he spends at her mansion. No one questions the breakfast she takes in the Hanged Man.

Placing one hand flat against his chest, the other reaching between them, his cock underneath her. Pinching a nipple between his fingers as she grinds against him, the first few drops of pre-cum dripping against his belly, against that trail of hair she loves so much. His mouth leaves hers for the breast he’s been neglecting, and she leans closer. Her other hand threading through his hair, biting her bottom lip. Nibbling between his teeth, gently enough, not gentle when she tells him so. “Varric,” low and husky, almost a plea as she reaches between them.

He leans back completely as she kisses him again, distracts him with the kiss as she lifts herself only slightly and wraps a hand around his cock. It doesn’t take her long to align him with her entrance, and his hands settle tightly on her hips. His feet flat against the bed, his knees raised, and he gasps with her as she lowers herself back down, and he watches as his cock disappears inch by slow inch inside of her. “Fuck Hawke,” he groans, eyes half-lidded, his head back against the headboard a little harder than he means to. Her hands squeeze on his shoulders as she begins to move.

Slowly at first, shallow thrusts, almost a continuation of the grinding. Feeling how tight she is around him, how much she squeezes him, how warm, how wet, how – raising herself until he’s almost out completely, seeing the way she’s coated him, until she buries him deep with one quick movement. With each heavy thrust, her breasts bounce, hypnotic before him but not as captivating as her face. A flush of arousal in her chest, a blush that carries into her cheeks, lips red from attention, from her biting, and that blue gaze behind dark lashes. He loves her, and can’t tell anyone.

He loves the way her hair slips from behind her ears, strays across her face. He loves the way she look at him, as though he is the beginning and the end. He loves the way he writes her, how she writes herself, comes alive under his quill and under his touch. Hawke leans forward, and oh, how he loves the way she kisses him. Sweet but forceful, tender but knowing. Desperate and wanting, kind and patient. He loves for her contradictions, for how straight-forward she is. He loves her. Speaking of it would put both of them at risk, although he wants to tell everyone he knows, shout it from the rooftops. He wants to tell her most of all.

His hips rise to meet hers as he holds her tighter, the page destroyed under their weight, their movements. She runs a hand through her hair as she leans back, brushing it out of the way, and he traces the scar across her belly. Some beautiful, ancient thing, her fragility and her strength, and her hand shakes against her shoulder. Bracing herself against him, and his touch steadies her, grounds her, as she stutters, shivers, gooseflesh that moves over her flesh as the waves wash over her. He cums with ragged breath, the flash of stars behind his eyelids, and they collapse together.

Laying on that bed, side by side, breathing back life into their lungs. He looks at her, and she at him, and she smiles. Her face is still pink. “I love you,” he tells her.

“Varric,” she says and it’s an exhale, some breath she’s been holding for longer than he knows.


	160. So Good (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: either 5 or 16 from the drabble list for zevwarden thank you ♥ 5 “Do you think we’re bad people?” 16 “Do you wish things had happened differently?”

The blood pours through his fingers, and Zevran can only watch this river that never ends. Talisen, the blades crossed in his breast, and this, the source of it all. Red from the heart of him, his hands on Zevran’s shoulders. “You could have come home with me,” he says, “ _mi querido cuervo_. It could have been like it was. We were happy once. Together.” A knot between his brows as he steps closer, stains his hands in Zevran’s. Reaching upwards, bloody streaks against his cheeks, the cold of something long dead.

“Things have changed,” Zevran tells him.

“Was it easy?” He asks, wrapping a hand around a hilt. “To kill me? For some Warden who doesn’t know who you really are, what you’ve done.” Taliesen twists, turns away, walks to his grave. Zevran wakes without thunder, without notice. Eyes opening slowly, adjusting to the dark. A deep sigh as he turns over, finds the warmth of another. Wrapping arms around her, and she slowly stirs. Turning to face him, and she reaches out, tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

“What is it?” She asks it in a voice still hoarse from sleep.

“Nothing,” he says, pressing a kiss to her forehead, “simply a dream, _amor_.”

“A bad one.” She doesn’t need to ask it, he doesn’t need to tell her, for her to simply know. She’s moving over him, leaning her weight against him, an elbow in the mattress and her hair falling like a veil to one side of her. She traces the line of his eyebrows with her fingertip, the curve of his cheek. Running down to the tip of his nose, a thumb over his lips. With hers, she wipes away Taliesen’s touch, and his hand tightens on her waist.

The dream lied. She does know what he’s done. Every secret spilled, his past laid bare, and she leans down, kisses him quietly. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, “Did you want to tell me what it was about?”

“Ah, my conscience is trying to tell me I am a bad person,” he says, giving her an easy smile. She returns it, but hers is far more troubled.

“Zevran,” she says before she kisses him once again. Her fingers curl at the nape of his neck, tender circles against his skin. “You’re not a bad person. Not in the slightest. Zevran, you’re so good.” Whispered against his lips, a gentle kiss that follows every sentence. “You’re so good,” and he holds her close.


	161. Statue (Solas x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: F!Lavellan that drank from the Well of Sorrows and romanced Solas. Post-Trespasser and F!Lavellan suffering from consequences from drinking from the well?

“It’s good to see you, old friend.” Resurrected Mythal, in all her glory. A soul carried by some other soul, given to another. “It has taken me some time to piece myself back together.” She stands tall, her head held high. Made of onyx and obsidian, the crown gold in weaves of alabaster. The Inquisition has wakened her from a grave protected, a body undisturbed. It was he who lay her there, a betrayal meant for the benefit of the People. “Shall we now face each other on equal footing?” She asks. She has ripped her magic back from him, stolen power at every turn. Power that rightfully once belonged to her.

“And where is your Inquisition?” She smiles at his question. The eluvian still swirls behind her, a pool of deepest blue, darkest purple. Illuminating the feathers on her shoulders, the bladed staff in her hands. It ripples, shimmers, and the Inquisitor steps through. Solas stiffens, his knuckles white around his staff. Mythal smiles as she bends over, holds a lock of Lavellan’s hair in her hands. Twisting it around her fist, raising it to her lips. Letting it fall, a veil of hair that comes to rest around her face. Mythal’s hand on her back, pushing her forward. 

“She is a shell. Just as you once made me. I could not enter the temple, so it was fortunate that she could, those many years ago. She has carried my knowledge, my mind, back to me. A shame, that in the taking, it robbed her of everything else.” Lavellan walks in a straight line toward him, stepping over fallen branch and long dead leaf. Cracked marble and stone, lost to time, decayed by an age. She stops in front of him, her face blank, emotionless, expressionless. Eyes that once shone with life are now dull, grey and glassy. She is a ghost that still fades.

“ _Vhenan,_ ” murmured quietly, achingly spoken as he lifts a hand to her cheek. She is cold to the touch. Gone – a morning spent in bed as she laughs in his arms, smile brighter than the sun, a teasing voice, gentle touch. Gone – holding his face in her hands, lips soft against his, breath that breathes joy into his being. He knew this war would take much. He didn’t think it would take her. Some naïve part of him believed that through all of it, even on opposite sides, he could protect her. And he has failed.

“Inquisitor,” Mythal says, “kill him.” The knife in Lavellan’s hand turns, the blade sweeping upwards, cold metal against his throat.    


	162. Name (Iron Bull x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Soemthing between Iron Bull/Inquisitor

He breaks, tears in two. “You need to do what’s right, Hissrad.” A great chasm stands between him and the rest of the Chargers, the hopeless battle that marches towards them. “For the Qun.” He hears the words, feels them echo. He doesn’t know what’s right, not anymore. He’s always felt his life so certain. No matter what came, no matter what left, there was always the Qun. Now there was Krem, there was Stitches, Skinner, Dalish, Grim, and Rocky. Now there were choices he couldn’t voice, a wavering in what always steadied him. Hopelessly, he looks to her, asks her to make the choice he wants, and can’t make. Permission to be more than what the Qun made him.

Lavellan puts her hand on Iron Bull’s arm, looks up at him fiercely, speaks quietly. “Call the retreat,” she says, “save your men.” A slow exhale, and the tight line of his shoulders ease.

“Don’t!” Gat says, stepping forward, but Bull is already pulling the horn from his belt. Her hand, still there, and a gentle squeeze. “You are throwing away this alliance, Inquisitor!” Lavellan turns to face him.

“Please thank the Qun for their interest in an alliance, but the Inquisition has decided to ally itself with the Iron Bull, and his Chargers,” she says.

“You’re making a mistake,” Gat insists.

“Funny,” she says, “it doesn’t feel that way.” Bull watches Krem and the others fall back, to the safety of the slope and away from the approaching horde of Venatori.

“All these years, Hissrad,” turning his assault from Lavellan to Bull, “and you throw away all that you are. For what? For this? For them?”

“His name –” she steps forward “– is Iron Bull.” The two elves glare at each other, Gat’s jaw clenched tight, until finally, he breaks.

“I suppose it is,” he says, and walks away. Lavellan looks up at Bull, and gives a careful smile. _Thank you_ , is so close on his tongue. Instead, he only smiles back. Turning attention back to the fire that streaks across the water, lambasts itself against the dreadnaught. An explosion that sends a shock wave over sand and rock, felt across every inch of him. Nothing to salvage, nothing to sink, and the ground doesn’t swallow him up, no guilt consumes him. Only relief.


	163. Boring (Isabela x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Would '“I’m trying to get work done.” be ok for a femhawke/Isa?

“I mean, the bedroom is so boring,” she says, leaping onto the back of one. Dagger turning in her hands, metal planted in his chest, and her strikes are quick and pointed. He falls, she rolls, goes to the next.

“I like the bedroom. The way it is now,” Hawke tells her, turning the staff, bolt after bolt firing quick and keeping the bandits at bay.

“See? This is why you need me. No sense of style,” Isabela says, back against back, defending Hawke against those that approach.

“Excuse me?” A deep breath and Hawke stands up straight, gathers the magic in her lungs, in her chest. Screaming forward, pouring fire, a dragon if there ever is one. Isabela laughs as Hawke raises her eyebrows, “I think I have plenty of style.”

“Yes, darling, but this I mean in the decorating sense. Nothing’s changed since you moved in! _That_ is boring,” she says as she dashes forward, chasing after the remaining bandits who flee. Hawke chases after her, a grin on her face.

“And what would you suggest?”  

“Paint! Banners, furs, mounted trophy heads. A tasteful nude, even!”

“Only if the nude is of you,” Hawke tells her. Isabela barrels into one of the bandits while Hawke sets the other alight. As Isabela stands above her felled prey, she laughs.

“Charmer. I’m trying to get work done here. Save that talk for later,” she says. The camp is just over the ridge. Hawke takes this time to close the distance between them, wrap an arm around Isabela’s waist. Tipping her back, planting a hard kiss, the heat still on her tongue.

“Later,” she says, tipping Isabela back to steady feet, “it’s a promise.”


	164. Choices (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “Don’t leave me behind” Hawke leaves her friends to visit the Inquisition (maybe with a little Fenris romance in there too?)

“Is it really that important?” Merrill asks, elbows planted on the table, face resting in her hands. A sort of pout on her lips as she looks at her, and Hawke laughs.

“Yes it is, kitten,” Isabela tells her, giving her a gentle elbow nudge. “Hawke’s outgrown Kirkwall. By going to the Inquisition, she’ll have more competent people to boss around.”

“You make it sound like I’m so eager to go,” Hawke says, leaning against the kitchen counter. Crossing her arms, raising an eyebrow. “You know I’d rather stay here, but Varric asked for my help. I can’t just leave him there when I’m the one who practically tossed him into the Inquisition’s clutches.”

“I’m sure Varric will be thrilled to see you, but us? We don’t have to be happy about you leaving, and we have every right to try and talk you out of it,” Isabela says. Hawke throws her hands up in defeat before she steps away from the counter, puts a hand on Fenris’s shoulder. He looks up, over at her.

“I wish you would at least consider staying,” he says, “I don’t know what you can accomplish by going in person, that can’t be accomplished in a letter.” Hawke leans over, gives him a gentle kiss on the cheek, before taking a seat beside him. “I would feel better if I at least went with you.”

“Fenris… we’ve talked about this,” she says. Her hand in his, running a thumb over his knuckles. With his free hand, he reaches out, smiles slightly as he brushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“I know. I would feel better knowing that they won’t leave you behind somewhere,” he says.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s better to stay,” she says, her head in its lap. Cold fingers run through her hair, gentle circles against her cheek. She murmurs words that are on its lips, as well. “I don’t want to be left behind.” Hawke sleeps soundly in Despair’s grasp. On that altar made for the Champion, and the demon keeps her safe. Tears splash against Hawke’s head as it holds her so, and dreams of a place she’d rather be. Despairs with a choice already made.


	165. Follow (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 'Don't go where I can't follow.' for a pairing of your choosing please? thank u i love u bb

“Truly, I was thrilled when you said you wanted to go on a trip,” he says, “but, had I known it would be to climb mountains, I might have voiced less enthusiasm.” She laughs ahead of him, looks over her shoulder. Even from where he is, he can see the smile, the amusement in her eye. “We are not quite so young anymore, _amor_. See, my idea of a trip would have been some island paradise. Perhaps somewhere with fruity drinks, warm sun, beautiful beaches. Then, we could be lazy all day.” She stops her ascent, feet in the snow, turns to face him completely.

“Sounds wonderful. I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” she says as she waits for him. Holding out her hand, and he takes it, and she pulls Zevran up closer. Cold nose against cold nose, but the kiss of her warms him, and he is content to stand there with her. Under tall tree, whistling wind. Softly falling snow, the breath of her fogging around her face. Pink cheeks, and a snowflake, just there, on her eyelash. She smiles as he cups her face, kisses her forehead. They climb the rest of the way together, hand in hand.

They are greeted at the gate, the guards bowing respectfully low for a Warden – especially a Warden of her status. Orzammar has not forgotten the Hero of Ferelden. From cold to sweating heat, lava lined tunnels and a ceiling of stone. They settle in the room given to them, that suite in the palace. Letting heavy bags fall from their shoulders, cloaks following suit, wet boots and armor. Zevran falls back into the bed, undressed but for but half-laced trousers, and allows himself to sink into the furs.

She slinks in beside him, rests her hand over his chest. Without even thinking about it, he rests his hand over hers. All the little intimate touches that come from the long passing of years by each other’s side. She curls in close, murmurs contentment. “ _Mi vida_ ,” he says, turning to face her, “I take it back. This is not so terrible.” Putting an arm underneath her, around her, the other still holding her hand. Legs wrapped up in legs, leaning against each other. A kiss to her lips, the tip of her nose, her forehead. They sleep that way, so tightly tangled.

The morning is spent much of the same way, finding their way back to each other time and time again. “No reports,” she says as she sits on the edge of the bed, “no orders to give, no recruits to look after –” Moving beside her, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, and Zevran looks up at her.

“No interruptions,” he says.

“Yes,” she says with a laugh, leaning down to kiss him once again, “that as well.” Gentle fingertips trace the tattoo on his face, palm against his cheek. He closes his eyes as he leans into her touch. In the braids, some twisting grey. She has not escaped the years either, and they both share laugh lines, crows feet. Her thumb brushes against his cheekbone, and she gives him a smile he cannot see. Filled with fondness, memories. Love, and warmth. “There’s somewhere I needed to go today.”

They dress quickly, and he thinks nothing of her gathering her weapons, one of the bags. He thinks, at first, that they might be heading to the Proving. A chance for the Warden to show young whelps that they should never underestimate her. A twinge of confusion as they pass the bridge, but perhaps to a weapons stall? Bring back something for Oghren? Confusion twists to worry as they step off the stone roads, take a darker path. Dread, when he sees the Legion – who greet her. “Warden. We’ve been waiting, since your letter. It’s an honor, to take you on your Calling,” one says. He stops dead, and thinks he might be sick.

“Zevran,” she says softly. Titling his head upwards, and it seems all the strength has left him. “Thank you for coming with me. Not just – here – but, all of it. I wouldn’t change any bit of the life we had together.”

“I told you once, I would storm the Dark City for the chance to be by your side,” he tells her, “that has not changed.”

“You can’t come with me, not this time. I have to do this alone.” Whispered words as they hold each other tightly, forehead pressed against forehead. Trembling hands on her arms, an embrace that threatens to crack, crumble.

“Do not go where I cannot follow, my Warden,” he says, hoarsely, voice cracked and raw.

“I love you. Always.” A crushing kiss, some desperate plea unspoken. Stay, stay, _stay_. She pulls herself from his arms, white knuckles and brushing away tears, turns her back to him, cannot look back. And he, he never looks away. Not as she goes with the Legion. Not as they close the doors to those depths. Arms around himself, and it seems all the warmth has left the world. He stands, and shivers, and cannot move.  


	166. Hiding (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hi! Could you do "can i hold your hand?" for pavellan please? I just adore how you write them 

It feels almost strange, to have the weight of the amulet around his neck once more. He plays with it absentmindedly, fingers moving over the crest of it. He had sold it in a moment of desperation, never expecting to see it again. All it had taken was one passing mention from Leliana, and Lavellan had sought it out. For him. That guilt twists at him once again. He had told Lavellan, of course, of what the others will think. He could not stop their assumptions of him. All he wanted was for Lavellan to not think the same. He wasn’t with him for privilege, for favors. He was with him for –

“Dorian!” it’s called across the field. Slinging the bow over his shoulder, and Lavellan hurries towards him. Half sprinting through the camp, a flush on his face and sweat on his brow. A pleased huff as he plants himself beside him, the smile etched across his face. His ears twitch with excitement, and Dorian’s hand drops from the amulet.

“I take it the hunt went well,” Dorian says.

“Oh,” Lavellan says, “yes. The refugees should have plenty for the next few weeks. Josephine is working on getting them into cities and setting up proper supply routes, with help from King Alistair.” He shifts from one foot to another, and it’s almost too easy to read him.

“Let’s see it,” he says. Lavellan’s ears perk upwards.

“See what?”

“Don’t play coy now. I can practically feel your excitement bouncing off of you,” Dorian tells him.

“I wanted it to be a surprise, when we got back to Skyhold,” he says, but he’s rooting through his bag nonetheless. Pulling out a book, mud at the edges, presenting it to him. Fingers brush as Dorian takes it from him, opens the cover.

“This is – this is very rare,” Dorian says in wonder, “one of the few copies of Iulia’s Treatise of Necromancy. I thought the only remaining copies were locked up in the Magisterium’s library!”

“You like it then?” Lavellan asks, biting his bottom lip, looking at him eagerly.

“Yes! Very much. I’ll have to study this, but – thank you. Inquisitor.”

“Call me Mahanon,” he says as he leans forward, meaning to kiss him, but Dorian steps back.

“You have your troops here. Scouts, spies, allies.” It’s the amulet all over again. All they’ll see is the Inquisitor showing the Magister untoward favor. “I’m not ungrateful. You’ll have to wait for my gratitude, later,” he says. Ears flat, and Dorian almost lets the fond smile slip through. So easy to read, so displeased at having to wait.

“Can I at least hold your hand?” He asks, stepping forward. Reaching out, fingertips over Dorian’s hand, the one that holds the book.

“Inquisitor –”

“Mahanon.” He’s so close, “and I don’t care what they think. I care about you. Let them see that,” he says. This time, when Lavellan leans forward once again, Dorian says nothing. Closing his eyes, and Lavellan takes his time with it, draws out the kiss. “I don’t want to hide how I feel about you.”


	167. Crazy (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "let's do something crazy" for fenhawke?? ❤️

“If you fall ill, Anders will blame me,” he tells her. She smiles at that, although he can’t see it, her back towards him. They’ve walked through the city, and past it, to its very edges. High walls left behind, and the rain had been unexpected. Standing in some farmer’s field, protection under leaf and branch, only the barest drop getting through it all. She has her hand extended in the midst of it, palm towards the heavens, letting the rain gather. Cold on her skin, gooseflesh up her arm. He stands behind her, leaning against the tree, his arms crossed.

She turns her head only slightly before she speaks. “It reminds me of Lothering.” Water spilling from where it pools, and she reaches for something distant. He watches long lashes close and here, like this, he can finally see the smile that spreads. “It always used to rain so suddenly,” she says, “and we’d get caught out in the fields.” Somewhere above them, a drop slides off a leaf, lands on her cheek, over gentle freckles, and runs down her face.

“Would you like to go back?” Fenris asks.

“There’s no place for me there. Not anymore.” Hawke draws her hand back, lets it fall to her side. Moving towards him, and she joins him there, leaning against that tree. Dark strands of her hair caught in bark, and she reaches out, puts a hand on his arm. “I want to travel the world, and see places you only read about. I know it sounds crazy, with all that’s going on, but…”

“I’ll come with you,” he says. Her thumb moves in slow circles, and this smile is far too brief. Stepping forward, his hand on her cheek. Pulling her towards him, a kiss to her forehead. “When this is over. Let’s do something crazy.” Branches sway and so do they, and Hawke wraps her arms around him.  


	168. Feel (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you do "I dont know how to feel anymore" please? Always look forward to your fics btw :)

“I’m very sorry Inquisitor,” Josephine says quietly. Blinking down at the letter in his hands, reading the words over and over again. Somehow none of them manage to make sense, but still he tries, again and again. “Is there anything we can do for you?” Looking up at the others, those three across the war table, and finds three worried looks cast in his direction. He expects he should feel something, but all he feels is the hollow beat of his own heart. He forces the smile, and neatly folds the letter.

“No, thank you. I’m fine. I was thinking of leaving for the Exalted Plains, if you could ready a few horses,” he says, putting the letter in his pocket.

“Of course, Inquisitor. Who would you like to take with you?” Leliana’s voice is impossibly soft, and she betrays her unease by playing with one of the statuettes, meant to signify troop movements. Round and round in her hand, between gentle fingers. He’s almost transfixed by it, until she lets it rest on the table.

“Dorian. Iron Bull and Cole, as well. If you could inform them, I would be most appreciative,” he says, “I just need to pack a few things for myself, if you’d excuse me.” For some reason, the practiced politeness Josephine has been teaching him comes only now with ease. He takes the letter with him, placed between the pages of a book given to him by another. The ride to the Plains is spent in silence, with Mahanon choosing to spend his nights alone, rather in a tent. They find him in the mornings, perched on a branch in a tree, watching the sun rise.

“Has he said anything to you about it?” Iron Bull half whispers it to Dorian as they walk, at Mahanon’s back, following their listless leader. Dorian silently shakes his head. Not a word, about much of anything. They stop when Mahanon does, ready their own weapons when Mahanon raises his bow, pulls an arrow from his quiver. Turning around the edge of that cliff, seeing the rift hovering over the middle of the stream. The demons crowd around it, but they’re practiced at this, now.

They make quick work of them – Iron Bull in the front, drawing attention. Cole, skirting around the shadows, finishing off the ones Bull puts down. Mahanon and Dorian, providing support where they can. Today, though, today is different. Mahanon is closer than he should be, practically in the face of them, beside Bull. A concentrated line of his brow, firing arrows as fast as he can. When it’s done, Mahanon looks up at the rift. The anchor is almost pulled to it, with no will of his own. A hand rising upwards, and the hunger that trembles in his arm. Deep in the core of him, the starvation for this errant piece. Jaw clenched tight, and it takes little effort to _pull_.

The anchor is taking every inch of the rift into itself, into him, and the muted growl in his throat bursts from him. Shouting with the effort of it, the scream of feeling it, and Bull puts a hand on Cole’s shoulder, pulls him to the side. It’s only Dorian who walk forward, goes to him, and puts his hand over the anchor. Holding his shaking hand tightly, pulling it down and, “Mahanon, the rift is gone.” His eyes search Dorian’s face wildly, sweat on his brow. Dorian puts his other hand at Mahanon’s face, steadies him.

“I’m sorry, I don’t –” Mahanon stumbles over the words.

“This isn’t just about the rift. They’re gone and you haven’t talked to anyone about it. To me. You must be feeling – I can’t imagine,” he says. Mahanon stares at him, the water rushing around their ankles.

“I don’t know how to feel anymore,” he mumbles. His hand has stop shaking. Dorian slowly reaches upwards, cupping his face in his hands. Tilting it towards his, smiles softly, briefly.

“Feel however you want to feel. No one will fault you for any of it,” he tells him. The stiff line of his shoulders falls, and the tears well up in his eyes.

“My clan is dead. My family,” he says. A hand, at his side, fisted in his robes. The other soon joins it, and Mahanon clings to Dorian so tightly, and only now does he allow reality to settle into his bones. “My family. Everyone I knew. Everyone I –” it chokes him. Hands unable to settle, unable to be still, finding place and place again, restless in grief.

“ _Mamaela_ ,” Mahanon wails, “ _ir abelas, ir abelas_ , I’m so sorry, I couldn’t –” and he’s sinking, and Dorian goes to his knees with him, holds him close, holds him tight as he sobs.


	169. Useless (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “I’m sick of feeling useless!” FenHawke

“I’ve had them tracked to the ass end of nowhere. This is where they’ve holed up,” Varric says, smoothing down the map on the kitchen table. Pointing out a place unmarked, in an area of no note, a blind spot from all those who had not been there. Aveline leans over to look, frown squarely in place, squinting at where he’s pointing.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Well, I have no reason to lie to you and the people I hired had no reason to lie to me. Apparently there’s some kind of fortress there. Crawling with more of those freaky dwarves, so they didn’t get too close,” he tells her.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Isabela asks, legs crossed and feet on the table. Chair tipped back as she rocks back and forth, turning the dagger in her hands, the point against a fingertip. “Let’s go show them what happens when someone threatens Hawke.” Fenris, opposite Aveline and Varric, has an elbow on the table. Hand over his mouth, studying the map intently. His eyes shift at Isabela’s words, casting a glance at all the others gathered. Merrill is nodding staunch agreement, Anders is rubbing his eyes – exhaustion plain.

“It’s not that simple. It would be at least a few days to get out there. We should also make sure some of us stay with Hawke, in case there are others in the city, lying in wait,” Sebastian says, from where he leans against the counter. 

“I’m going.” They all look up, turn their attention towards the doorway. Hawke, hand holding her robe shut. Dark circles under her eyes, hair messy around her face. She crosses her arms, walks forward, peers at the map. The others cast looks to each other, wondering which of them should be the one to say it.

“You can’t go,” Anders sighs. “You’ve barely recovered.”

“But I am recovered. I’m the one they came for, and they attacked Carver as well. He wants to come with us, and he’s already received permission to come with us. They wanted the blood of a Hawke, so we’ll show them exactly what a Hawke can do,” she says.

“You’ll get down there, spend all your mana, and then what? What if you re-open the wound? What if you get hurt somewhere else? You already barely held them off when they attacked you here,” Anders continues.

“I was alone. This time I’ll have Carver. And Isabela,” she says, looking over the group, her eyes settling on one and one alone, “and Fenris.” There’s some sweet joy at hearing his name, at knowing she wants him by her side still. Knowing she still wants him. He had felt himself tear in two when the Arishok pierced his blade through her very middle. Flooded with profound regret, an ache at the loss of not having repaired what he had broken. Anders scoffs.

“Wonderful, so you won’t have me there to save you when you –”

“I’m sick of feeling useless!” Hawke says, harsher than she means to, louder than she wants to. “I have been lying in that bed and confined to this estate for weeks. I’m not going to sit on my hands after someone breaks into my house and tries to kill me.” She takes a deep breath before she continues, steadies her tone. “Thank you, for all your help but I can see just how drained you are. You need rest, and the people at the clinic still need you. More than I do. Merrill and Sebastian can see to restocking the clinic with supplies, and helping you make up for whatever you’ve missed.”

“I can increase patrols outside of the estate while you’re gone,” Aveline says, after a moment of deafening silence. With Aveline giving agreement, the rest fall easily into place.

“I’ll keep my ear to the ground, see if I can’t figure out more before you leave,” Varric says, rolling up the map. “I can help Blondie as well. There’ve been some people at the Hanged Man asking about exactly where they can donate.”

“Thank you,” Hawke says, “all of you.” One by one, they slowly leave. Aveline, with a hand on Hawke’s shoulder. Merrill, with a fleeting hug and Isabela, giving a kiss on her cheek. Hawke sends Anders away with a basket filled with food, and Sebastian to walk him home. Fenris is slow to rise from his seat, and his reach is only hesitant at first. Settling a hand at the back of her, speaking quietly.

“I would prefer to stay.” He had carried her in his arms. To Aveline’s office, where Anders and the other mages poured desperate magic inside of her. He had carried her in his arms. Back to her estate, pulling the blankets around her. When she slept, Fenris did not leave her bedside. When she woke, he believed she would want better company. He regrets that now, and hates the terror he felt in hearing she had been attacked. “In case what Sebastian fears is true, and there are other fanatics still in the city. It would – I would feel better knowing you are protected,” he says. Hawke searches his face, that piercing blue, before she smiles.

“I would appreciate it,” she tells him.


	170. Distraction (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “That’s distracting.” ZevWarden

Standing against the edge of the desk, papers in her hands. Frowning as she reads, reaching up, fingers playing with her bottom lip. He stretches, curls like a cat where he lies in bed. Slow to wake, to open his eyes, he reaches out to where she’s meant to be. Finding her space empty, he pushes himself up, sees the back of her. Slipping from the bed, bare feet against the floor, he closes the distance between them. Wrapping arms around her waist as he rubs his face against her. 

“Good morning,” she says, patting one of his hands with her own.

“It is too early for paperwork, _amor_ ,” he grumbles, voice still hoarse with sleep. She chuckles as she leans back into him, continues to read. She’s wearing his tunic, stolen his trousers, and left him with nothing. No matter. His chin still presses against her shoulder, and he blinks at the words on the page. Not his business, and so he goes to work at other things. Finding the edge of that tunic, hands against her belly, over the curve of her.

She squirms against him as his hands wander, as he closes his eyes, lost in the feel of her. Her breast, a perfect weight in the palm of his hand. The scar he knows to be on her left hip, the birthmark just by her bellybutton. Fingertips slipping into the waistband, over hipbones, and ever lower. “That’s distracting,” she says with the barest hint of a smile. Words no longer important, holding the papers without reading.

“Mmm,” he hums, mouth against the nape of her, “it is meant to be. Come back to bed, mi vida.” Papers flutter down to the desk as she turns to face him, fingers threading through his hair, moving back towards the bed.


	171. Justified (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 9 whatever it is, i didn't do it. fenhawke pls and thx bb ur amazing

She gave such gentle prodding, careful insistence, but it was insistence nonetheless. “It isn’t healthy,” she had said, “to live with dead things.” He was prepared to let the mansion fall into ruin. No one had come to reclaim their lost property, and it was hard to imagine it ever feeling like his. Why should he maintain something that did not belong to him? The protest died in his mouth, when she managed to speak first. “You deserve better.” Perhaps she thought so, but still, he could only give muted agreement.

She had appeared at his door in the morning, arms filled with fresh blankets, cleaning supplies, and even food. “I hate early mornings,” she said as she passed over a few things to him, “but I can already feel this is going to be a full day affair.”

“I suspect your feeling will prove correct,” he had told her. They had decided to divide the work. Now Hawke languishes in the kitchen, while Fenris tackles one of the spare bedrooms. Wiping away the cobwebs from the corners, scrubbing at the mold in the corner of the mirror. Sweeping the dust and dirt from the floor, and he reaches under the bed with his broom, and finds something different. He picks up the wine glass while he leans the broom against the wall, goes to pick up the other.

A robe. That’s all it is. A simple robe.

A robe exactly like what Danarius used to wear.

The glass cracks, breaks in his hand, pieces shattering on the floor. Not too far away, Hawke raises her head at the sound of something breaking. “Whatever it was, I didn’t do it,” she calls out, expecting an answer. Hearing only silence, she pushes herself up to her feet. “Fenris?” More silence, and she’s walking out into the hall with a frown. “Fenris!” Half-running down the hallway, stopping at the spare room when she sees him.

It’s a pain in his throat. The ache of holding things back. The words he couldn’t say, the language he couldn’t speak, the things he couldn’t scream, couldn’t yell, and wasn’t allowed to feel. “Fenris,” she says, and it almost seems like her voice is coming from a great distance, everything drowning in a memory. It has gold trim. Embroidered snakes. “Fenris, I’m going to take this from you.” Said so softly, and she very carefully takes the robe from his grasp. Throwing it out into the hallway, out of sight, and she’s pushing away shards of glass with her feet.

“Fenris, I’m going to touch you, if that’s alright.” He can’t speak, can’t reply, and simply looks at her. Reaching for his other hand, opening his clenched fist. Picking out bloodied pieces of glass, letting them fall with the others. “I’d like to heal this, but I need you to speak to me first,” she says. His hand, palm upwards, and hers, underneath his. She doesn’t move, doesn’t prod, and doesn’t insist. She simply waits. He fears his words might shatter the careful balance he’s holding inside himself. Racing thoughts, mouth dry, some wild beating in his ribs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally breaking the silence moments later, “what you must think of me.” They sit together on the threadbare mattress, and the warm prickling of her healing, her magic, begins to bloom.

“I think you’re very good at looking one way,” she says, “while being a different way.”

“How do you mean?” he asks.

“You have such justified anger, but it’s okay to feel more than that. To be upset,” she tells him. “When my father died, I was so furious that he left me to manage it all without him. I was going to sell his clothes, but when I opened the closet, I couldn’t do it. Funny, what reminders of people can do to us.”

“All I’m trying to say is that I don’t think less of you. You’re very brave, but you’re also not alone. I know that’ll take some time to get used to, but you don’t have to deal with things on your own anymore,” she says. His hand is still in hers, resting on her lap. Her magic is warm, and Fenris lets his head rest on her shoulder.  


	172. With You (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Oh & also 218 & 200 for Zev and Noya please!! “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.” “Please pretend to be my girlfriend/boyfriend.”

She looks up when she hears the door open, sees him smiling on the threshold. That smile falters, when her expression does not change at the sight of him. Instead, she slowly puts her hand on the bed beside her, wordlessly asking him to sit with her. He does, and puts an arm over her shoulders. Leaning closer to her, and she against him, and he rests his head against hers. “We will kill the Archdemon,” Zevran tells her softly, “do not fear, _mi amor_.”

“It isn’t that.” The fire casts warm, soft light across the room. A log breaks, a flash of embers. The fire, but he can’t feel it, and instead his blood runs cold. Some danger in his spine, and he holds her a little tighter. “Riordan told us that no matter what happens tomorrow, the Archdemon will not stay dead unless it’s a Grey Warden who kill is. It’ll just keep coming back, it’ll never stop. So it’s up to us… and we will. Except that it will claim the life of the Warden who slew it,” she says.

It’s too soon. It’s too soon, but he already knows. To be without her would be to sever his heart, to never know how love feels again. Noya would insist on doing it. She would never let another give their life for her. He would lose her. “You can’t –” his mouth is dry, his throat suddenly tight. Parched and aching, and his hand shakes on her arm. “Noya,” and it’s all he can manage.

“I’ve done something selfish. Morrigan offered us – me – a way out, and I – I convinced Alistair to do it. I practically ordered him to what Morrigan wanted,” such silence as she frowns, as he struggles to understand what she means, “I don’t want to die,” she finally says. She explains it simply, what Morrigan’s ritual entails. The price they must pay for their lives. It’s guilty relief that floods him, and he closes his eyes, listens to her speak, to her breathe.

“Alistair knows that it is not just your life that you save, but his as well. He would not have agreed to it if he did not see the sense in it,” he tells her, eyes opening, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“There’s something else,” she says, turning to face him completely. They sit across from each other on the bed, cross-legged, knee against knee and their hands clasped between them. “Morrigan told me that it had to be Alistair because the taint… takes away things. It won’t be long until I can’t have children.” He lifts up one of her hands in his, kisses her knuckles.

“I am with you, _amor_. Always. Perhaps when we are done killing this Archdemon, we can start on our family, hmm?”

“Children without being married,” she says with a slight laugh, “what will the Revered Mother say.”

“We can pretend!” Zevran says, “Or you can simply marry me, _mi vida_ , my Noya.”


	173. Safest (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: This isn’t from a prompt list, but I’m feeling some Alistair nostalgia. Could I request something fluffy with an older/more mature warden Alistair and the warden commander? I love your writing. It makes me so happy, unless I’m crying from it. :D I hope you have a good week!

She pulls the hood up, holds the cloak tighter around her. The rain has come suddenly, and without mercy. The road turns to mud underneath their feet, and he adjusts the bag on his shoulder. With the night, comes the chill, and their breath fogs around them as they go. The lantern barely lights their way, lost in the downpour and the dark. They make their way in silence, the mabari trotting beside her, unaffected by the weather. They stop under the signpost, the crossroads.

She holds up the lantern, and finds he hasn’t put up his hood. Enjoying the rain, wet in his hair, on his face. He leans down to her, presses his forehead against hers. “Be seeing you, I suppose,” he tells her. Raising her free hand, gentle, against his cheek.

“Be safe,” she tells him. Her hand moves around him, underneath his cloak, and he cups her face in his hands. Her cheeks are cold, but so is his touch. There’s some warmth in the kiss, a heat they share, pass between them. There was a time he might have protested. Alistair believes that Skyhold is the safer journey, and her quest far more dangerous. He’d rather their roles be switched but now – it’s too late. Thumbs brushing across her cheekbones, and the only thing he wishes was that were day. Sunlight to see her, memorize every inch of her. An image to hold her in his memory, until he sees her again.

“I love you,” he tells her.

“Don’t forget our promise,” she says.

“I won’t. This one last thing, and then we’ll be together again. Forever,” he says, repeating the words they’ve told each other a thousand times over. Wrapping arms around her, and they hold each other tightly, listening to the rain against the grass, the mud, leather and cloak. A kiss, and then another, and truthfully, he doesn’t want to stop, but she puts a hand on his chest.

“Come back to me,” she says, “no matter what.”


	174. Family Matters (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I apologize for all the prompts but could you also do 5, 92, 156, 205 for zevnoya? <33 “If you loved me, you’d fight for it. If you loved me, you’d show it. If you loved me, you’d fight for me. Do you even know what love is?” “For some reason I’m attracted to you.” “Please look at me.” “You are strangely comfortable.”

She is to be sent to Amaranthine. The burden of Warden Commander has fallen on her shoulders and she has accepted it without question. More than just the Wardens, she is now an Arlessa, the known Hero of Ferelden. Noya carries titles, importance, and consequence. Such a thing cultivates enemies, rivals, and assassins. He has always meant to go back to Antiva, deliver to the Crows what they deserve. Her titles only give his quest more urgency. To keep her safe, he would murder the world. “ _Mi amor_ ,” Zevran murmurs against her neck, her hands over his shoulders, his back.

They have made the most of their remaining time together. No moment goes to waste, a promise made, working towards a certain purpose. Holding her hips tightly, her legs wrapped around him. Groaning as they collapse together, as they curl together, and she threads her fingers through his hair. “Ah, the most comfortable place is indeed in your arms.” She laughs as he kisses across her collarbone, and props himself up on an elbow. He tilts her face upwards for the kiss. Gentle touch along the line of her jaw and upwards still, tracing along the shell of her ear. They linger over the earring, over the gold that matches his.  

“Have you thought any more on it?” he asks her. A questioning quirk on her brow as she smiles.

“Thought about what?”

“I did ask you to marry me, and I have not yet received the answer,” he says. That quirk moves to surprise, and then fades into concern. A hand on his chest, a wordless ask, and he rolls over as she sits up on the bed. Pulling the sheets around her, and her fingers twist into the fabric.

“I didn’t know you were serious,” she says. He laughs as he sits up as well, leaning against the headboard. Resting easily, raising a knee, settling his arm on it.

“Of course I was serious. We are going to be a family, no?” Noya sighs. “What is wrong? You want to have babies with me but you do not want to marry me?”

“Zevran, I thought the earrings were enough. To show what we mean to each other without being a chain.” She reaches out, puts a hand on his arm. “I don’t want to bind you to something. Children I can raise alone, but I don’t know what I’d do if you–”

“You insult me, my Warden, at the suggestion I would ever abandon my children. Or you,” he says, the frost clear in every word.

“I’m explaining myself badly.” Her hand squeezes on his arm. “I’m afraid of what I’d do if I _lost_ you. Somehow being husband and being wife makes that fear unbearable.” Pulling her hand away, turning away, and rubs the space between her brows. Zevran moves forward, sits very near her, and pulls her hand away.

“Please look at me,” he says, holding her hands tightly in his. “Your family left you, Tamlen was taken from you, everyone you have ever loved you have lost and I know this terrifies you – but not me. I will never, ever leave you. If you love me then you would fight this fear, for us.” Her gaze drifts, full of rolling thought, but he follows it, stays in line of sight. “We can have a life. Together. And it can start this very minute, all you have to do is say yes.”

Noya looks at him, the stray hair that wisps by his face. Reaching out, some small smile, as she tucks it behind his ear. He can feel her touch at his ear, over the earring, and there it remains for agonizingly long, and silent, moments. He leans into her touch, turns to kiss her palm. Holding her hand against his cheek, his thumbs moving in slow circles against her skin. She shifts forward, presses her forehead against his. He thinks she might speak, but instead she closes her eyes. The kiss is such a tender and chaste thing, soft, against his lips.

“Yes,” she says.  


	175. Just Fine (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 35 for zevwarden please! “Here, take my hand. Everything is fine, just hold onto me and keep moving.”

“Zevran, you have to get up.” His arm under his, around him, trying to pull him to his feet. A low groan, some wordless protest. “I know, but they’re coming. We have to go.” Hoisting him upwards, an arm over his shoulders, and he has no choice but to lean against him. His feet are weighted beneath him, legs less than solid. The blood bubbles through his fingers, a hand pressed against his side. More, at his cheek, running from temple to jaw. Clouded, clumsy, he holds him tightly and guides his steps.

The words of a long dead instructor bore into his mind. If there is an anchor, cut it loose. “You should go Warden,” he tells him. Mumbled in his mouth, but he feels him hold on tighter and knows he understood.

“No,” he says, “we’ll reach the others soon.”

“I am slowing you down. Unless, you wish for us to die together? How romantic,” he says, gives him a wheezing laugh. He looks over his shoulder, and Zevran knows that he doesn’t need to see them to know that the darkspawn are close.

“We’re not going to die,” he says. “Everything’s going to be fine, just hold onto me and keep moving.” If there is an anchor, cut it loose. Dragging him over branch and trail, through thicker wood and deeper brush, trying to make their trail difficult to follow. The Warden holds onto him ever tightly, and does not let go. If there is an anchor, cut it loose, but the Warden refuses. Zevran begins to understand, through muddied thought and bloody wound, that this person is different from all he has ever known.

He had thought he would make himself useful. Become a tool for the Warden to use. He thought it might save his life. He never expected more. He didn’t think it would be the Warden who saves him. More than just here, more than in this moment. Looking up at his determined face, the staunch resilience to bring them both to safety and Zevran knows that accepting the contract on the Warden’s life was the best decision he ever made.


	176. Rivers, Lakes, Oceans (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Can I request 103 & 22 for Noya & Zev ! “I’m so stupid to make the mistake of falling in love with my best friend.” “Look at the sky.”

She stands on the edge of the ruins, hair free from the tight braids she usually keeps it in. An overly large sweater, her arms crossed, and the fire still burns behind her. The sun is only just beginning to rise, although they can’t see the horizon through the thick nest of trees. They will be leaving the forest soon enough, their work here done. He steps up onto the stone beside her, stands with her. Zevran puts an easy arm over her shoulders, pulls her in. “I thought that on our way back, we could see my clan,” she tells him, “but they’ve already gone. No doubt they left right after I did.” There’s a breeze that sweeps its way through. Looking skyward, watching tall trees sway.

On the cusp of Harvestmere, and the leaves have already begun to fall. Soon these trees will be bare, spent, empty lines that stretch up against clouds. Life will return, as it always does, after the snow. He suspects that it is still winter for her, in that relationship with her clan. Not for what was done to her, for her. She left to live and took the will to find Tamlen with her. He rests his head against hers, and leaves get caught up in the wind. Fluttering against the forest floor, pressed against moss. “Would you like to see the ocean?” He asks her. She turns to him with a bemused expression. “We are very close to the Amaranthine ocean, and do not think I have not noticed, my Warden, your love of water.” She laughs, and nods.

Zevran wakes up Alistair, exchanges quick words with him. A lazy nod, and Alistair waves him away, agrees to take over watch. He takes a dagger with him, but she takes nothing at all, and they walk hand in hand through the forest. Mud underneath their boots, breath fogging behind them. There is no grand beach here, or tenuous cliff. The forest simply ends, gives way to water. Standing at the edge of it, the waves only just lapping at their feet. An endless stretch, one that does not end. Fog nearer to the shore, and here, the sun in the distance clearly seen.

Her hand slips from his, and she reaches for the hem of her sweater. Pulling it over her head, draping it over a branch. “Not that I do not appreciate the view, but what are you doing?” He asks.

“I’m going in it,” she says as she takes off her boots, begins to undo the lacings of her trousers.

“It will be freezing. Noya, wait – you do not know what is in there,” he says as she takes her first steps. He watches the goosebumps emerge like wings on her back, down her arms. Unsteady steps as she wades in, and she shivers but does not stop. The water rises, around her waist, and she settles her hand just over it. Moving over wave, after wave, and she looks over her shoulder at him, and smiles.

“ _Esto es estúpido_ ,” he mumbles to himself as he throws off his boots. Shirking the rest of his clothing, going in after her. “ _Braska_!” The heat rolls off of her, evident in the cold air, and he stomps towards her.

“It’s not that bad,” she says to him even as her chin shakes and shudders, as she shivers with it. He raises an eyebrow.

“No?” Cupping water in one hand, splashing her with it. She gasps with righteous shock, and dives towards him. They grapple with each other, the silence punctuated by a gleeful squeal, the breaking of water. A foot hooked around his legs and she topples him into the water, but he pulls her right in after him. They both emerge from the water gasping, and rushing towards each other. Wrapping arms around each other, laughing as they hold each other.

“Are we done with this yet, my Warden?” He groans.

“You didn’t have to follow me,” she tells him.

“Yes, well I am so stupid to make the mistake of falling in love with you, so I must follow you to defend you from sharks,” he says, teeth chattering. She laughs against his chest, water dripping from her hair, rolling down her back.

“I can think of nowhere else I’d rather be, than here, with you,” she says.

“I can,” he says, “somewhere warm with a fire.” She laughs as he scoops her up into his arms, begins walking back to shore. 


	177. Beaches (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: thinking of zevwarden on the beach next to a band singing in Spanish (for a friend)

“I insist,” he says, on one knee before him, reaching for Rémi’s leg. Shaking his head as he laughs, letting Zevran take up his foot, rest it on his knee. Deftly undoing the laces of his shoes, slipping it off his foot. One down, and to the next. Rémi smiles as he digs his toes into the sand, warm even as the sun begins to set. Zevran stands, holding two pairs of shoes in his hands.

“Let me hold mine,” Rémi says, reaching for them, but Zevran turns out of his way.

“I want you to experience a proper Antivan beach without being burdened by anything,” he says.

“But if you’re holding both, then I can’t hold your hand.” Zevran purses his lips, narrows his eyes.

“A cheap tactic, Caro,” he says, handing over the shoes. Rémi chuckles as he walks beside Zevran, slips his hand into his. Linking fingers together and they walk the very edge of the water. A beautiful expanse of blue, waves that roll without ending. Seagulls drift overhead, the noise of them lost on Rémi as he’s lost in the expanse of it all. He’s looking out over the water, but Zevran is looking at him. Softly smiling as he studies the frame of him, filled by some unexplainable feeling.

No words to tell Rémi what he means to him, the things he would do, the things he would give. A heat that scorches, burns, squeezes at his center, flaring outward with each beat of his heart. Rémi turns, looks at him in wonder, and the sight of him stokes the flames. Zevran squeezes his hand lightly. What he would give to stay in this moment, just as endless as the ocean, to stay by his side.

They walk far enough to the edge of the city, and there, on the patio of some restaurant, a band is playing, singing. A language Rémi can’t quite understand, not yet, but Zevran is teaching him the words. He can pluck out a few, but he doesn’t need to understand to know how wonderful, how beautiful the song is. Zevran stalls, stills, sets his shoes down. Reaching for Rémi’s, taking them out of his hands, laying them on the sand beside his.

Zevran takes his hand in his and settling it on his hip. His own reaches around Rémi’s waist, pulls him in close. “We dance.” Rémi grins as they begin to sway, as they leave deeper footprints in the sand. The waves, the music, and Rémi rests his forehead against his. Moving in those slow circles, bodies close together, and he tilts his head upwards and Rémi obliges the kiss. “ _Te quiero con todo mi corazón_ ,” Zevran murmurs against his lips. A language Rémi doesn’t quite know, but still, he understands.


	178. Good Enough (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 42 or 88, anything with zev pls “You make me feel like I’m not good enough.” “But then I’d have to put pants on..”

She turns it over in her hands, the pendant, attached to the necklace she wears. Around and around, as though it holds some secret she can’t yet see. As though looking at it might cause it to speak, to whisper all the things she wants to know and cannot ask. A turn, and it remains silent. She lets it fall, rest back against her chest, and looks over at him. Lying beside her, on his stomach, arms crossed under his head. Mahariel rolls over, drifts a hand across his shoulders, down the spine of him. Curving over the tattoos that twist on his skin, and she kisses his arm. “I know you’re awake,” she says. Zevran’s eyes immediately open.

“You have caught me,” he says, turning, propping himself up on an elbow. Gently pushing her back down to lie on her back, reaching out, touching the necklace. She watches as he examines it carefully.

“You have never told me where you got this,” he says, holding it in a fist, “a token from a previous lover? Perhaps, you like it better than the earring I have given you? Not good enough, hmm?” She laughs, shakes her head.

“No. It’s the last memento I have of my parents.”

“Oh!” He lets it fall, dropping it from his hand, letting it rest, “I see. It is very lovely.” She reaches upwards, a hand to the nape of his neck, and pulls him down to her. Kissing him roughly before shoving him back, quickly moving to straddle him. He lets his hands rest on her hips as he looks up at her, watches as she lifts the necklace. Lifting him his head, he lets her put it on him. The pendant rests in the middle of his chest, her hand over it.

“Keep it safe for me?” she asks. His hands squeeze against her before he pushes himself up – one palm planted against the ground, the other around her waist, keeping her close. Fluttering kisses against her now bare collar bone, slowly nodding. “Good, then we should go eat breakfast with the others.”

“Ah, no, _amor_ , but then I have to put pants on!” He protests with a huff as she slips from his arms, laughing at his sincere pout.


	179. Jealousy (Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: that jealousy prompt with Fenris and Anders was so good! I’d really like to see one the other way around. Fenris being jealous of F!Hawke and Anders

Hawke’s hands, cupped together. Anders’s hands, under hers. Them, heads close together, talking quietly, and he speaks, and she laughs, and they smile together. Something bright shines in her palms, a warm glow. Sitting at the end of the table, in that corner, but they seem such a world apart, separated from all the rest. Fenris forces himself to tear his gaze away. Turning his head, and he rubs closed eyes. Hard enough to see the stars pop behind his eyelids, before he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“He’s teaching her how to heal. For once, her healing doesn’t make you feel like absolute garbage after,” Isabela says with a grin. “It’s about time. Wonder why she never asked him before.” Fenris knows why. She respected his dislike of the man, and kept her distance. Now, she had no reason to. He can’t help looking back towards them. Anders reaches up, tucks stray hair behind her ear. Hawke’s cheeks go a careful shade of pink, and the smile slowly curls. There’s an ask in her eyes, the answer in his lips, and Fenris turns away again when they kiss.

It burns in the heart of him, chokes in his lungs. Isabela only laughs at this public display of affection. Anders, emboldened by her teasing, puts an arm over Hawke’s shoulders, and pulls her close. Fenris hates himself for this, this pain and anger that squeezes his chest. He has no right to this, this jealousy. He had walked away. He wanted her to be happy. Hawke is smiling, Hawke is laughing, Hawke is loved, Hawke is happy. This is what he wanted, Fenris tells himself. This is how it’s meant to be.

Except Hawke is supposed to be smiling, Hawke is supposed to be laughing, Hawke is supposed to be loved, Hawke is supposed to be happy, with _him_. Not Anders. But he – he is – Fenris pushes away his drink, rises abruptly from the table. He ignores the glances, the voices that call out to him, and he simply leaves, twisting touch at the token around his wrist.


	180. Trust (Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I thought you said that I could trust you” can you write something about Ander’s reaction to Hawke siding with the Templars even after befriending and helping him/other mages before?

It’s so far away, and yet, she still feels it. Hot on her face, in her bones, a fire that burns without mercy. Rubble is still falling, and the screams – heard across all of Kirkwall. Echoing in parts even untouched by the explosion, but it’s violence that they can see, death that they can feel. They won’t understand why. They don’t know, they don’t _know_. They’ll just react. She struggles with her own reaction, despite her own knowing, and somehow all the noise crashes into silence. Watching two sides descend into anger, agony, useless arguments that they sling at each other. Raised voices, pointed fingers, and him, at the center. Anders looks at her sadly, but firmly.

“It had to be done,” and she hears only his voice through all of it.

“I know,” Hawke says, “but why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you. I trusted _you_.” He has no answer for her, not yet, and she has nothing left to give him. All that’s left is the rubble, the burning, the silence, Meredith and Orsino standing in front of her. Sound that claps back as they demand her loyalty, allegiance and she knows this is not a choice she wants to make.

Kirkwall sees the explosion. Sees the fire, the flames, the rubble, the ruin. They don’t know, don’t understand. So she’ll bring them something they do. Keep Meredith in her sights, keep her from fulfilling the Annulment. Try to find some order, keep the casualties coming to a minimum. “Meredith,” she says, turning to the Knight-Commander, “gather your forces.” Victory, on Meredith’s face. Desperation, in Orsino. And Anders – Anders breaks. She watches his steady stance falter, his shoulders fall. Turning away from her as he closes his eyes, turns his back to her. Again and again, all the ways they hurt each other.


	181. Unexpected Meetings (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: prompt (if you want to): thief f!tabris breaks into the same house the same night zevran is there to assassinate someone. an awkward stand-off / bypass as they both stand there unsure how to react

The window is easily unlocked, shoved open. It’s shameful really, how safe they feel they are in their fancy homes. They think that if they have some kind of estate, a few guards, that none could slip through. She crawls through, finds her footing easily. No candles lit, no voices heard. She’s chosen a bedroom correctly but this – this is a spare room. Drawers empty, nothing under the mattress. Moving to the doorway, opening it with care. Creeping through the hallway, and she stops. There, under a single cracked door, flickering light.

Moving closer, ear near to the door. A single low voice and she can’t stop the disappointment that mingles with the anger. This was supposed to be a haul! _The_ haul. A step closer, and she prays the floorboards don’t creak, and looks through the crack of the door. Her mouth gapes open. The one she had come to rob, hogtied and kneeling on the floor, a gag in his mouth and the sweat of fear on his brow as the knife presses against his hanging jowls. The one who holds the knife is some satisfied looking elf, a tattoo down his cheek.

“I am perfectly happy to kill you now,” he says as the man squeezes his eyes closed and whimpers, “Alas I do need you to tell me first where your ledger is. A single glance in the right direction will do.” Putting weight on her left foot completely and – betrayal. The floorboard creaks, the elf looks upwards. Charging forward to the door as she steps back, flattens herself against the wall with her arms raised. Blade against her throat and he smiles.

“A thief! You’re not here for my prize, are you?” He asks.

“I just wanted to get some gold and get out,” she says.

“Then we’ll help each other,” he says, taking away his blade from her skin. Extending his hand and she doesn’t know what possesses her to actually _take_ it. He pulls her forward into the room, taps his blade against the man’s shoulder. “This is Brandon. I,” tapping it against his own chest, “am Zevran, of the Antivan Crows.” He points the blade at her next, raises an eyebrow, a question in it.

“Tabris,” she says.

“Excellent! Now we are all acquainted and very good friends, and we can start getting what we need. Tabris would like some gold, which, I assume you are keeping in this room, no?” Brandon, wide eyed, shakes his head furiously. “So it is!” Tabris immediately sets to work, in drawers and under mattress, finds a safe hidden behind a painting. “Wonderful. If you are set to cracking it – if there is a small notebook, please consider it mine,” Zevran tells her. Muffled protests from Brandon as she focuses on listening to the dial.

Sure enough, a pile of gems, jewels and gold, and a small note book. Taking it, walking over to him, holding it out. Zevran licks his lips as he takes it, flips through it. A wide smile, the grin of a satisfied cat, spreads across his face. “Excellent, Tabris. Brandon, _tsk tsk_ , you were no help at all,” he says. She’s busy stuffing her bag with all that she can carry, while Brandon softly weeps. Surprised, when she turns around, finds Zevran right there.

He bends down – bows – before her, takes one of her hands in his and presses a kiss to her knuckles. Still holding it as he rises, and that smile is still there. “I hope you have an evening as lovely as you are, Tabris. I do hope we run into each other again. Now, you should be off before you see something you don’t want to,” he tells her with a wink. Cheeks flooding pink, she nods, before making a hasty exit. Crawling back through that window, laughing to herself as she scales down the wall.


	182. Impressive (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: How about “Am I supposed to be impressed?” from/to Fenris?

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” He snaps as he slips his arm underneath his, wraps it around his waist. Hawke leans against him gratefully as he chuckles weakly. “Why would you go after them alone? You could have been killed. It was a foolish thing to do.”

“I know,” Hawke says, “I’m sorry. Forgive me?” Fenris grumbles as he helps Hawke to sit on one of the barrels in Lowtown. He leans back, closes his eyes, and presses a hand against his side. “I just need a few minutes to focus, and then I can heal myself.” It’s more of a mumble really. Fenris shakes his head, takes one of the health poultices from his belt. He gently pulls away Hawke’s hand, and in the moonlight, the blood looks black.

Fenris kneels down beside him, pulls the stopper from the bottle with his teeth. “This will sting, but it’s no less than you deserve,” he tells him.

“Fair,” Hawke says, but the chuckle dissolves into a wince as the thick liquid coats the wound, as Fenris presses it against him tightly. Narrowing his eyes as he keeps it packed against his side, looking up to see Hawke with his eyes still closed.

“You worried me,” Fenris says. “You rounded the corner and I – do not. Do that again.”

“I won’t. Do I get a kiss to make it better?”

“Absolutely not. You don’t reward your mabari for bad behavior, neither shall I reward this.” Hawke sputters laughter, a wince of pain, and quickly back to the laugh.

“Did you just call me a dog?” Fenris struggles to hide the smile that threatens to spread, as Hawke looks at him with eyes wide with delight.

“I called you a mabari,” he says. “It is slightly more dignified.” Hawke has a hand on Fenris’s shoulder, holding to him tightly as he laughs, as he leans forward, as he presses the kiss to his forehead. “Bah.” A stubborn flush fights its way into his cheeks, as he waves Hawke’s face away.


	183. Nightmares (Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I had a nightmare about you and wanted to make sure you were okay” F!Hawke and Anders. Anders has a nightmare when Hawke is in the fade

It starts slow, as if the ticking of some clock. It’s in the spaces between that she walks toward him. A hand outstretched, reaching for him, words he can’t hear. He thinks she might be calling his name.

They’re in bed. They lie facing each other. She smiles as she reaches out. A tracing touch over his brow, his temple, the curve of his cheek. Through the stubble on his face, the line of his jaw. Hair splayed over the pillow as she shifts forward.

She’s speaking to him, but he can’t hear the words. There is only the time that passes, the clock that beats in the heart of him. She stands in front of him as she reaches out.

Smiling still as she presses her lips against his. Wrapping his arms around her, laughing together as he holds her close, burying his face in the crook of her neck. Listening to the beat of her heart as she threads fingers through his hair.

Her hand passes through him. She breaks at that, and he means to wipe the tears from her cheeks but it is as though she is made of smoke. She’s babbling something to him and still – “Hawke, I can’t hear you,” he says. From the look on her face, it’s clear she can hear him.

Anders traces the ridges of her spine. Down her back, and back up again. The gooseflesh follows his touch, and she curls against him. Her legs tangle in his, and he smiles. This is the place he is always meant to be, with her, his home.

She reaches for him again. Trembling hands that do not touch his face. She is so close and yet, so far. She does not bother to speak, simply stands in place and pleads in a way he understands. She is so close.

He turns over in the bed. He means to banish the nightmare, find safety in her presence. An empty space beside him, and his hand rests just there, where she is meant to be. A sigh as he rubs his eyes – and he has lost count of the nightmares he’s had since she’s gone to the Inquisition. They plague him, haunt him, torture him. He can only wait for her to return, like she promised.


	184. Mornings (Zevran x M!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Would you consider 17. Is that my shirt? for Zev/m!warden? Thank you!

Unusual, to wake without him. Yawning, rubbing his eyes as he pulls back the covers. Stretching out, arms above his head, toes curling, trying to shake the sleep from his bones before he puts his feet to floor. Struggling to pick up the pair of pants from the day before, hopping from one foot to the other as he shrugs them upwards, loosely ties the lacings. Another yawn, as he begins his search. He finds him in the kitchen, standing at the counter.

Zevran is wearing a shirt much too long for him, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He’s wearing only the shirt. Zevran’s hair is untied, unbraided, and he’s humming to himself as he moves the knife, chops slices of apple. Surana slowly moves forward, a smile on his face. “Is that my shirt?” he asks, mumbles it into the back of Zevran’s neck. Wrapping his arms around him, slipping hands underneath his shirt.

“You were meant to still be sleeping, _amor_ , I was going to bring you breakfast in bed,” Zevran says, sounding distinctly disappointed as he lays the knife to rest. Surana chuckles as he closes his eyes, presses his mouth against his shoulder. His hands are drifting, over hipbone and belly. He’s always so warm, a heat that he can’t describe. Fluttering kisses to his neck, and Zevran chuckles slightly as rests his hands against the counter.

Following the v-line of his hips, finding that soft patch of curls and Zevran smirks. “Different than what I had planned, but I do enjoy where you are taking the morning,” he says. Surana smiles wider as he teases touch around Zevran’s cock. Over his thighs, hips, his ass and back round again. Taking him into his hand, feels him stiffen. Zevran shifts from one foot to the next, leaning back against Surana, hating the trousers that separate them. His other hand still against his belly, while Zevran’s hands tighten against the counter.

His eyes flutter closed as Surana begins to stroke the length of him, slowly at first. Gentle in the way he handles him, a taste of what’s to come. Slowly tightening, quickening, and drawing out the first drops of salt from him. His thumb smears it over the head of his cock, the underside of him, and Zevran can’t help the groan that escapes him. Moving his hips, grinding against him, and he can feel it. Surana, tight and trapped against his trousers, hard with want.

Surana’s hands flutter against his belly as he feels Zevran move against him. The rhythm of his hand does not falter, however, and Zevran bites his bottom lip. He can feel him pulse with desire against him, and it takes all of Zevran not to fuck into his hand. To beg for more, more, more – “it is too early,” he hears himself saying, “Perhaps we should find our way back to the bed.” Bracing himself against that counter as he continues that slow grinding, feeling exactly how much Surana wants him.

“An excellent idea,” Surana murmurs.


	185. Like Them (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “You are nothing like them.” for Cullen x Lavellan please? :)

She twists her fingers together. Over that balcony, wind sweeping upwards. Watching the perfectly manicured gardens in the dark, the roses and the lilies, orchids and hydrangea. Bare feet against marble floors, and the _vallaslin_ burns on her face. Lines that go deeper than skin, tattooed into her bones. The touch on her back is light, gentle, as he joins her on that balcony. Mirroring the way she stands, elbows on the bannister, hands linked together. “I found you,” he says with a smile, one that quickly fades. “Are you alright?”

“I am, there was just – something Briala said that’s staying with me,” she says. His hand finds its place on her back once again. It’s low, this dress, and his palm is warm against her skin. His thumb moves, she doesn’t even know if Cullen realizes he’s doing it, slowly back and forth, some comforting thing.

 “When we met, I found her in the Servants’ Quarter. I believe her exact words were that I was ‘slumming it with the rest of my people for once’. She thought I was just like all the rest, those pretty peacocks of Orlais. Dancing away at a ball and forgetting there are people outside these walls,” she says.

He leans close to her, reaches out with his other hand, rests it over hers. “You are nothing like them. You’re out there fighting for these people. Even this ball is for them. It’s a means to an end,” he tells her.

“I know I shouldn’t let it bother me this much,” she says, “but I think I might have been called ‘Inquisitor’ too many times tonight.” They both turn at the sound of clapping, the pause in between music. The hum of it starting again, and his hand moves to her shoulder.

“I may never have another chance like this, so I must ask.” Moving again as Cullen steps back, takes a small bow before her, and extends his hand towards her, presenting an offer. “May I have this dance, Lavellan?” The smile finals breaks across her face as she puts her hand in his.


	186. Choices (Cullen x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: we always have a choice for Cullenxinquisitor? Thx 

They gather around the body. By some trick of the light, it could almost be breathing. Pulsing, humming still with energy, the red lyrium sings although its host has died. Josephine covers her mouth. “It’s hard to say what we should do with it,” Dagna says. Lavellan crosses his arms.

“And all the other red Templars we’ve killed,” he says. Dagna nods grimly.

“I’ve been studying the red lyrium as best I can, but it’s hard to do that when prolonged exposure makes you – ah. Well, crazy,” she says. “I can tell you that it’s still growing.”

“How?” Josephine asks, “Isn’t he dead?”

“ _He_ is. The lyrium isn’t. It’s like what Bianca told the Inquisitor: lyrium is alive.”

“It will consume the corpse, then,” Cullen says and it’s barely a question. They’ve all seen the reports from Emprise du Lion, read Lavellan’s report of the twisted future he’s seen. Lavellan rubs his chin.

“It will. I don’t know if it will stop growing, really. I’ve tried a couple of different things and I can shatter it, pause its growth, but not kill it completely,” Dagna says. “That sound you hear from it? Every red Templar we’ve encountered hears it even louder. If it’s the blight –”

“If it’s the blight, then it’s like the Calling?” Lavellan asks.

“Yes! Thanks to Leliana, I got my hands on some reports from the Hero of Ferelden. They encountered a group of Darkspawn who could speak, who said that the blight was like a song. _This_ song,” Dagna says. Leliana has her hands clasped behind her back, narrows her eyes.

“Could an Archdemon then control the spread of red lyrium?” Leliana asks.

“Maybe. I really don’t know. Just that we should probably be concentrating on figuring out how to destroy it all,” Dagna says.

“I assume we’re all in agreement when I say that you’ll have anything you need,” Lavellan says, looking around at the others gathered. A quick nod from all of them. “Keep us informed.”

“Will do,” she says. They slowly make their way from the workshop, head in separate directions. Lavellan means to go to the library, changes his mind.

“Cullen,” he says, calling out to him as they cross the battlements. Cullen immediately stops, turns towards him.

“Inquisitor. What can I help you with?”

“Cullen. Tell me what’s on your mind.” Cullen blinks a few times before he sighs, the stiff line of his shoulders falling. He rubs the space between his brows before he gives him a small smile.

“Am I that obvious?”

“No,” Lavellan smiles, “I’m just getting better at reading you.” Cullen puts a hand on stone, while Lavellan crosses his arms, leans against it. The wind seems sharper here, the fur in Cullen’s cloak moving this way and that, hair curling at Lavellan’s cheek. So when Cullen speaks, voice low, Lavellan steps closer to hear him.

“I kept looking at that body on the slab, and I – I could see my face. One wrong decision, and I could have just been another red Templar. If only I had acted sooner I could – I could have changed things. Not just for myself, but for other Templars. Maker help me, and the mages. I shouldn’t have been such a coward –” The words are wrenched from his lips. Anguish in it, as his brow furrows, as he looks away. Lavellan puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You did act, and you’re changing things now. We can’t go back. We can only keep moving forward and hope we make better choices,” he says. His other hand moves, resting gently over Cullen’s. “We’ll figure all of this out, together.”

“You’re right. I should be more focused-” Lavellan closes the distance between them completely, that hand on his shoulder moving lower, pulling Cullen into the hug. Fur brushing against his cheek, and Cullen is slow to return it. But he does, oh he does, holding so fiercely, so tightly.

“It’s okay,” Lavellan says, “it’s okay.”


	187. Soaps (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Zevran and the Warden - aromatherapy? Something with luxurious scents. :)

“I have been saving something,” he says, “for a special occasion.” Smiling as he takes something from the bag, hides it behind his back. She raises her eyebrows as she leans back in the tub, watching as he makes his way towards her.

“Am I supposed to guess what it is?” she asks, looking up at him. He hums thoughtfully, tilts his head from side to side.

“I would prefer to simply show you,” Zevran says. In one swift movement, he sinks into the other side of the tub, water spilling up and over the edge. Legs tangling with legs, they face each other from the cramped, opposite ends. Pulling that hand from around his back, palm flat and moving towards her.

“Soap,” she says, as she takes it from him.

“Soap made with the finest wines from Antiva.” Closing her eyes as she brings it close. Deep and rich, red and full. “Do you know how long it took me to find such a thing in Ferelden? It was not easy, I tell you that. Well worth the effort, however.” Dipping it into the water, turning it in her hands. Foaming over her fingers, and the smell of it blooms into the air. Fills the small bathroom, and she only very slowly opens her eyes.

“What’s the special occasion, then?” she asks, keeping the soap close. She laughs as he suddenly moves, water sloshing back and forth, his hands on the edge of the tub. Leaning over her, leaning close, peppering her cheek and neck with kisses.

“I love you,” he says, switching to the other side as she presses soapy hands against his chest, “and you love me. That makes every day a special occasion.” She makes some low, mocking groan, lost in the laughter as he lets himself fall against her, water soaking the floor.


	188. Sleeping (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: 66 or 79 from the 200 prompts? :D 79: “Stop hogging all the blankets!” ZevM!Warden

He sleeps, and Zevran looks at him softly. Lying on his side, his arms bunched close against him, his fingers almost touching his lips. Long hair bound, but still strands escape the knot and curl over his cheekbone. Zevran reaches out carefully. Gentle fingertips against his brow, his temple, brushing that hair behind his ear, and he doesn’t stir. Resting his hand on the side of him, feeling the steady inhale, the following exhale. Zevran shifts closer, almost enough for their foreheads to touch, and smiles. Inhale, exhale. He moves his hand back to Rémi’s face.

His thumb moves in slow circles over his cheek. If he moves his finger, he can feel the rub of cold metal, see the shine of the gold earring in the dark. Of all the things he might have imagined for himself, he had never thought it would be this. He studies Rémi’s long dark lashes, the curve of his nose, and the familiarity of his lips. The sight of him always makes his heart ache. Some sweet pain, some tight squeeze, which makes his pulse quicken and mind race with thought. Thoughts of only him, all the words that threaten to spew from his mouth. _Mi amor, mi vida, mi alma, mi todo_.  

Zevran slips closer, legs tangling in legs, forehead pressed against forehead, a hand splayed against Rémi’s back. “Zev? What is it?” Voice hoarse with sleep, barely able to open his eyes. A single glance at Zevran before he closes them again, snuggles closer.

“Nothing, _Caro_ , you are simply hogging all the blankets,” Zevran tells him. He gives some musing, drifting, grunt as Rémi buries his head in the crook of his neck. Zevran smiles at the feel of his breath against his skin, the warmth of being so near. He falls asleep that way, tangled up so in his lover. He can’t remember when he’s slept better.


	189. Tokens (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: how did Fenris come to wear Hawke’s token of affection? Did she give it to him or did he steal it from her before he left?

She allows him the leaving. No, that’s wrong. She allows him the silence of it. She holds the blanket to her breast, stares at the flickering flame in the fireplace, and says nothing. She allows him to leave because that is his choice, and she doesn’t try to change his mind. He isn’t sure he wants her to. He tells himself not to look, but as he closes the door, he does. To see her press a hand against her face, bowed and bereft. His hand squeezes on the doorknob as he pulls it shut. Some part of him marks this place forbidden, and that makes it harder to leave.

                Standing there, and his hand slowly falls back his side. There is nothing inside that room, and yet he cannot move. Listening, and, a shuddering inhale. A deep exhale. It’s enough. It’s those sounds which urge his leaving, steps heavy down the stairs. This is a battlefield he doesn’t recognize, a fight he doesn’t know how to navigate, so he retreats, flees, instead. A wound he has inflicted, one he cannot heal, and he prays to some Maker he doesn’t know to make Hawke hate him. Hate has always been the balm for his own pain, so, he thinks it might be for hers.

He stands in those streets, just outside her estate, and extends his hand. Palm flat, upwards, feels the rain just beginning to fall. Cold, against his skin, and clouds cover moon and stars, hiding all the little light the night might give. Some distant rumble of thunder, an echo in his bones, a streak of lightning flashing across the sky. Clenching his hand into a fist, and Fenris walks to his mansion, alone. The roof has long been falling apart, and in the silence of an empty room, he listens to rain collect in the bins placed across the floor. He does not wait to dry himself off. He does not light a fire.

He sits on the edge of his bed and runs a hand through his hair. Hand moving, down, over his face, over his mouth and he – he is some mockery of that last image of her. Squeezing his eyes closed as he puts head against pillow, curls into a tight ball. He thinks he will not sleep but sleep consumes him, drowns him, smothers him, and buries him in dreams. He has walked these dreams before, will walk them again, but this time, Hawke walks beside him. Standing in the jungles of Seheron, and she simply watches as he kills the Fog Warriors again, and again, and again. A piercing gaze, judging when he knows she never has, and she turns, leaves.

He wakes slowly. Eyes that struggle to open, limbs that ache. Slowly pushing himself up to sit, and the dreams are already fading. A hand over his face, a shuddering inhale. A deep exhale, and they are gone. So preoccupied by them, the events of yesterday quietly creep forward. With this, he wakes completely. Going stiff with it, and his hand trembles. He forgets to breathe, for a moment, as all of it comes crashing forward. In the light of morning, she will see it clearly as well. She will hate him, and Fenris can’t stop the shuddering moan.

The hand clasped over his mouth as he doubles over on the floor, sweat beading on his brow. The trembling doesn’t stop, and he thinks he might choke on the very air he breathes. If he could breathe at all. Squeezing his eyes closed as the world spins around him, and he holds himself tightly, fingers bruising into his arm. A fear he can’t name beats through him with every beat of his heart, and there, on that floor, he can only remain until it passes. He lets himself fall, lie there, stone cold against his temple, his palm, and white hair crosses over his forehead. He prays again. _Do not hate me_.

She gives him time. She gives him days. She does not seek him out. He does not go to her. He sees the others, in the meantime, and if they know then they do not make a mention of it. They bring him food. They speak with him. They try and lure him out into the world, all the places Hawke might not be. On one occasion, she is. He sees her from across the hall, speaking to someone she seems to know. A drink in her hands, a smile on her face, and her head turns, and she sees him, and her smile falters. He puts his own drink down. He leaves.

The next morning, he wakes to a knock at his door. He knows exactly who it is. The fear threatens to take him once again, but instead he puts his hand on the doorknob and opens it wide. Hawke holds a small closed box in her hands, and smiles at the sight of him. “Did I wake you?” she asks. Still holding onto the door, Fenris shakes his head. “May I come in?” Immediately stepping back, a small gesture, inviting her forward. She stands very near him as he closes the door. Turning to face her, and he can see how tightly she holds the box. Nervous fingers, knuckles white.

“I didn’t want to intrude. I saw you yesterday, and I – I didn’t want you to think I’ve been avoiding you,” she says, “I just didn’t know if–”

“Hawke. It’s alright. I am glad to see you,” he says. A hesitant and quick smile before she nods. Despite the awkwardness of it all, there’s such relief in the sight of her. To see her step forward, to find her place on the bench as she has done hundreds of times before. He takes a seat beside her, and doesn’t know what to tell her. All the words he has had racing through his mind since that night suddenly vanish, and he is left, hands clasped together.

“I’ve brought you something,” she says, putting the box on her knees. Before she opens it, she pauses. “There’s something of a tradition in my family. My father did it, my grandparents, on and on. We Hawke’s – if there’s something we love,” he’s forgotten how to breathe again, “then we show it. With tokens.” She opens the clasp, holds red in the palm of her hand. She lifts her gaze almost shyly, to meet his. She holds it out towards him.

“I’m not asking for anything in return. I only wanted you to know. Will you accept it?” she asks. A shuddering inhale. A deep exhale. He reaches out slowly. Soft, underneath his fingertips, warm in his hand. She rests a hand on his knee.

“I know you need time,” she says gently, “I’m willing to wait.”


	190. Parts of Us (Iron Bull x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: If you’re up for it) Post Trespasser, tender Bull with f!Lavellan/inquisitor?Whenever you feel fluffy and less heart breaking anyways ;P (I mean this in a loving way I love your work)

The comb is laughably small in his hands. It’s almost a mockery of something more real, but nothing these past few days have felt real at all. She sits on that chair, and allows him to brush her hair. Gently tugging through knotted locks, nagging knots, all the stress and wear. He puts it down on the table when he’s done, sets to braiding her hair. They’re far looser than what she might have done, stray wisps abound, but it’s better than she could do right now. She reaches up, pulls a braid over her shoulder. Turning in the chair, looking up at him, “thank you,” she says.

“No problem _Kadan_ ,” Bull says. His palm is warm against her cheek, and she holds it there, leans into his touch, closes her eyes. “Sorry they’re kind of messy.”

“They’re perfect,” she murmurs. His thumb moves softly against her cheekbone, before he takes her hand in his. Leaving his room to walk the battlements, breath fogging around her. The muddy red of cold on her skin, but he doesn’t seem affected at all. She gives each soldier they pass an acknowledging nod. Once she might have waved as well, but she has only one hand now, and that one is occupied.

“I was thinking,” he says, “we should go somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Not sure yet. Away from here, at least,” he says, smiling at her. He puts his hands on her waist, lifts her up onto that secret spot they both know. He climbs up after her, and they sit on the roof together, let their feet dangle off. Skyhold is emptying. It’s becoming quiet, as those who might have worked the courtyard, the battlements, all of it, return home. For the past few years, Skyhold has been her home. The Inquisition might be disbanded, but she’s not going to give that up.

“You miss them, at first,” he says, holding up one hand. He’s missing the tips of two fingers. With those that remain, he passes touch over the eyepatch. “And then, you barely notice at all.” She holds the stump of her arm, furrows her brow. There are days she thinks she still has it. Going to reach for something, and wondering why she hasn’t grabbed hold of it yet. Then there are the nights she wakes in an aching scream, a pain in a place that doesn’t exist anymore.

“Don’t sweat it _Kadan_. I’ll be your arm, as always,” he says with a smile, flexing his arm, slapping his other hand against his bicep. She laughs as she leans against him. He rests his arm over her shoulders, around her, pulls her closer. He’s right. She hasn’t lost anything. He braids her hair. He helps with her armor. He reaches for the things she can’t, catches her when she falls. He leans over, presses a kiss to the crown of her head.

“ _Ar lath ma, vhenan_ ,” she gives a contented sigh, “ _Kadan_. Thank you.”


	191. Hate (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: #5 from that most recent list for Zevwarden pretty please? (maybe angst with a happy ending if you're feeling generous?) “Why do you hate me?”

“What have I done to make you hate me so?” She asks, tilting her head curiously. That furrowed brow, those worried lips. He swallows painfully, mouth dry, choking on nothing. She looks down, and so he does as well. She puts her hands over his, wrapped around the hilt of the dagger buried in her belly. Darkspawn blood is almost cold, unnatural. Hers is warm, scalding against his skin. Blood on her fingertips, and she holds up her hand, staring at it as though it must be wrong. Some mixture of confusion, anger, gives way to acceptance. She looks at him coldly.

“They’ll be glad to know you finally finished your contract,” she says, “Crow.” He steps back, and pulls way the dagger, casting it aside. A hole in her armor, a bloodied slit, and she presses her hands against it. Still it spills, through her fingers, over her hands, dripping to the floor. He steps backwards and she takes an unsteady step forward, falters, falls, and he opens his arms to catch her. Gently going to his knees, cradling her still.

“No. No, no, no. This isn’t right,” he says, shaking his head. “I do not want this. I never wanted this.” His hands tremble, pressing his palm against her wound. Eyes wide, and he’s still shaking his head. “I would never. I could not have - _estoy en una pesadilla_.” His words mumble, trail, falter and fade, breathless things that slip from his lips, that rail against this reality.

“Zevran. I thought you loved me. I thought I was more than… Rinna,” she says. He presses his forehead against hers.

“My Warden, I – I do. You are my life, I do not –” She reaches upwards, fingertips against his cheek. She leaves a bloody trail down his face, some macabre symmetry, a tattoo more permanent than the other.

“Zevran,” she says, and it sounds distant. “Zevran.” It’s almost as if someone is shaking him, but he is shaking, holding her close, holding her tight. “Zevran.” Some cold down his spine as his eyes open wide, and he gasps as he comes too.

She’s kneeling over him, a hand on his cheek. That furrowed brow, those worried lips. He surges forward, hands crushing on her shoulders, her arms. “You’re alive. I didn’t–” He says hoarsely.

“A fear demon had hold of you. Are you alright?” She asks. Trembling arms wrap around her, head buried into the crook of her neck. Holding her close, holding her tight, and he shakes this time not with fear, but with relief. She threads gentle fingers through his hair, rubs circles on his back.

“Zevran.” She says it so softly. “It’s alright. I’m here.”


	192. Lullabies (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: this might be a challenge, but could you do 179, 143, 99, 79, 63, 52, 44 and 35 in one fic for noya and zevran? ily Lisa! “You haven’t even touched your food.. what’s going on?” “You can sing?” “I really don’t know why I’m crying.” “I think you’re just afraid to be happy.” “You’ve got something on your cheek.” “Just say it is okay. I just need to hear you say that.” “I forgive a lot, but I never forget what was said and done.” “Here, take my hand. Everything is fine, just hold onto me and keep moving.”

She pushes away the plate as she leans back in the chair, letting posture falter. Sinking down in the seat, elbows firmly planted on the armrest, legs stretched out as far as they’ll go. On the other side of the table, he laughs. She looks positively _grumpy_. Pushing away his plate as well as he crosses his arms and leans forward. “Done already? You haven’t even touched your food,” Zevran says.

“They won’t stop moving,” she says, “I think one of them kicked my bladder.” Moving a hand over her belly, swollen and ready to burst.

“Oh?” He rests his chin against knuckles, raising his eyebrows. “Are they in trouble already?”

“I forgive them, but I won’t forget,” Noya grumbles. Humming to himself as he stands, makes his way around the table. Easier to move the table than it is to move her, simply shoving it out of his way. Kneeling down before her, replacing her hand with his. Looking up at her with a smile as he feels a tiny foot press against his palm.

“I told you, they won’t stop moving,” she says. “When are they going to want to come out?” That is a distinct groan, displeasure at being as big and as unwieldly as a castle. He chuckles as he peppers kisses against her belly.

“ _Arrorró mi niño, arrorró mi sol, arrorró pedazo, de mi corazón_ ,” he softly sings. She can only watch as he does, his eyes and his hands never leaving her belly. As though they can hear him, their movements inside her slowly still. The song fades but still he remains, there on his knees, his thumb moving in slow circles against her. Reality slowly settles on his shoulders, the fact that he is singing to his yet unborn children; _his_ children, with _his_ wife.

“This is a dream,” he says, quickly wiping away the tears that he refuses to let fall, “one I never want to wake from.” Noya shifts, reaches down, brushes away the one he missed from his cheek. She takes on his hands in hers, holds it tightly.

“This isn’t a dream. You’re allowed to be happy Zevran,” she says. Some part of him needed to hear her say the words. He presses a kiss to her knuckles. She’s always had such a strong grip. She pulls him towards a future he can face, and it’s all he can do to hold on and keep moving.


	193. Dominant (Zevran x F!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: hi queen, I'm feeling sinful, could you write a smut fic between your warden & Zev that explores more of zev's dominant side? i'll go now 

The road turns to mud underneath their feet, slick and trapping, the rain falling without mercy. “This is miserable,” she shouts over the downpour, “let’s find an inn.” She keeps her hood pulled, the cloak some bare protection from all of it. They all have some measure of relief at her words – none of them favored making camp in this weather. They huddle together in silence as they march towards their destination. The town is a tiny flicker of light through the darkness, and the inn a welcome respite. They drip mud and water, and she pulls back her hood. Zevran, Leliana and Wynne do the same.

They sit together in a corner booth, exhausted and hungry, wait for the warm food they ordered to arrive. Leliana rests her head on Noya’s shoulder, while she smiles watching Zevran and Wynne mirror each other. An elbow planted on the table, resting chin against knuckles. They at least all brighten when food is placed before them, steaming still and richly smelling. “Thank the Maker,” Leliana says as she takes up her fork, hunched over, and begins to pile it into her mouth with desperate abandon. Encouraged by her display of forgotten manners, the others do the same.

“I, for one,” Wynne says, “will be happy to have a bath.” Zevran practically moans at that reminder – no freezing river, no soiled lake – a proper _bath_.

“A bed,” Leliana says as she leans back contented, her belly full. Another half-moan as Zevran pushes his plate away. From across the table, Noya sighs as she leans back as well, closing her eyes and listening to the rain fall heavy against the inn.

“You cannot simply say these things and then leave me trapped here,” Zevran says, raising his hands and shooing Wynne out of his way, “I would like to enjoy myself now. Go, go!” She at least chuckles as she shakes her head, rises from the booth. Zevran is off practically sprinting, racing towards the stairs, and disappearing up them. Leliana rises as well, joins Wynne in walking to their room. Noya rubs her eyes and waits with the coin to pay the barmaid. Her steps to the room are slow and heavy, her still dripping cloak under her arm.

She heads up the stairs, reaches their room, and expects to find Zevran either soaking in the bath or simply collapsed on the bed. Instead, he’s waiting for her. His shoes discarded at the door, his clothes in a heap in the corner. The bath is large and full, gentle steam rising from the water. There, he waits, an eyebrow raised. “You finally come,” he says, shifting from one foot to the other. She leans back against the door, lets the cloak fall from her grasp. His skin is glistening wet from the rain, and one drop falls – down his chest, the v of his hips.

“Someone had to pay the bill,” she says, and he closes the distance between them. Humming under his breath as he works at the clasps of her armor, pauldron and gauntlet, setting them aside along with his armor, their weapons. Her clothes underneath are soaked through, stuck to her, and she raises her arms as he peels off her shirt. She steps from the pants he pulls from her hips. Her skin is cold, clammy, but so is his. Pulling the braids of her loose, damp and wet, feeling locks of hair fall against her back.

Zevran trails touch over her shoulder blades, the line of her spine. “A bath, a bed, yes,” he says, “but we are finally alone.” Wrapping arms around her, hands splayed against her back. “ _Mi amor_. Noya.” Her mouth against the crook of his neck, teeth bared, carefully bitten, a kiss as apology. Again, and again, and they sway together, pressed together, stumble backwards towards the bath. He holds her hand in his as she steps into the water, sighing deeply, contently, as she sinks into it. He joins her right after. Her back towards him, against his chest, his legs around her. He leans back and she leans against him, his arms draped over the edge of it.

He cups his hands in the water, brings it up and over her chest and lets it fall, run over her. Again and again, hands against her body, warm streams of water running down her breasts and shoulders. He flattens hands against her stomach, her thighs, tracks touch ceaselessly. Nibbling against her shoulder, a kiss, a care, holding her tightly against him as he savors the feel of her. Palming a breast, pinching her nipple between his fingers. The bath is much this way – leisurely washing each other, mixed with want. She kneels before him as she washes his hair and he keeps his arms wrapped around her, kisses her belly, and takes a nipple into his mouth. Tongue swirling around it, and she holds his head close.

He’s already hard by the time she turns his attention to him, a soapy hand wrapping around his cock, and he groans as he tips his head back. “We have been traveling without end. Always with the others. You – you have been a torture,” he tells her. Running her other hand over his chest as she leans over him, almost straddling him.

“I haven’t done anything to you,” she says, teasing his earlobe between her teeth.

“You have been you. Looking the way you are, being the way you are. I have not had you in days,” Zevran says, “I need you desperately.”

“Then claim me,” she tells him. He doesn’t need to be told twice. He wraps an arm around her waist, lifts them both effortlessly out of the water. Her arms over his shoulders, her legs holding tightly around him as he steps from the bath. There’s a sharp inhale, the slightest gasp before he captures her mouth with his. A few steps forward, her back against the wall. Her feet touch ground slowly. There’s power in his touch, restraint in every move of him. Hands that run along the curves of her, fingers calloused by years of sword play, yet soft against her skin.

Zevran pulls her bottom lip between his teeth, takes advantage of the opening. Tongue presses against tongue, warm and explorative, and they breathe into each other. Such a thing, to breathe the air of another, to seemingly share lungs, taste, to be so completely one half of a whole. Bodies pressed so completely together, lines that twist, and she gasps breath when his mouth slips from hers. Desperate kisses over her chin, her neck, her breast in his hand. Teeth at the goblet of her throat, and he’s going to his knees, hands tight against her thighs.

He never hesitates. Hot breath against her cunt, a teasing test of what is to come. First he presses kisses to her inner thighs, sucking and nipping, leaving marks on his territory. His fingers dance over her skin, over her ass, holding her tightly, pulling her towards him, as he runs his tongue over her clit. The groan escapes her lips, and she runs hands through his hair. His tongue splits the folds of her, teases at her entrance. Gentle pressure but never giving in. He locks lips with her clit, and her legs shake as he writes his name with his tongue.

If not for the wall, she might have fallen by now. Even so, she’s still almost bent over completely, one hand still in his hair while the other is on his shoulder, eyes closed and mewling. He brings her to the brink, time and time again, and it is at those times – mouth leaving her cunt, kisses on her thigh and belly, fingers running through the folds of her. “Zevran,” Noya says, and it’s almost a growl.

“You do not get to come, until I say so,” he says and her biting reply is broken by his finger, pressing inside her, his mouth back attentively to his work. She can almost feel the smile in it. He hums some foreign tune, a song she doesn’t know, and she feels it against her, in the bones of her. Her mouth gasps open, stars behind her eyelids, hand clenching on his shoulder. She is there – she is – a gasp, a snarl, as he breaks away from her. Fingers slick with her wet, rising to his feet as he wipes his mouth. He captures her protest with his lips, tasting herself on his tongue, and a hand wrapped around her throat.

His hand moves upwards, over her jaw, his thumb running over her lips. Under half-lidded eyes, she watches him. An arm around her waist, and he pulls her towards him. Locking eyes as he walks her towards the bed, hands on her shoulders as he turns her. Moving down her arms, and he pulls one behind her, hand wrapped around her wrist, and presses her down to the bed. She wraps her free hand in the bedsheets as she plants her feet flat against the floor.

With his free hand, he wraps a hand around himself. Stroking himself, moving the head of his cock against the entrance of her cunt. Rising to her toes, shifting on her feet. She wants to buck backwards, but the hand around her wrist tightens, presses her against the bed. “ _Tch, tch_. Be still my Warden.” So hard to do so when his cock is right there, rubbing against her entrance, wet with her and with his own pre-cum. She can feel him press, just there, and she bites her bottom lip. Again and again, he tests, and does not _give_. When he finally does – a strangled moan, ripped from her as he pushes his hips forward, buries his cock inside her to the hilt in one fluid motion.

His hand tightens around her wrist, the other against her hip. His eyes fluttering closed as he feels her cunt clench around him. He grinds himself against her, and she cries out against the sheets, her clenched fist. The other, still trapped, a fist and back again, unable to move otherwise. He pulls himself out slowly, inch by agonizing inch. Her feet once again fall flat against the floor, only to rise onto her toes as he thrusts back inside. Her legs shudder and shake, unsteady with need.

Zevran reaches forward, hand against her head, grabbing a fistful of hair. Pulling her back towards him, and she has to steady herself with that one hand. Palm flat against the bed, but still, it’s almost not enough as he begins to thrust in earnest. Pulling her back even more, his hand slipping round to her throat once again, holding her against him. Her back curved, her wrist still locked between them, and he holds her there as he bites gently at her shoulder. Fucking into her, finding a rhythm, and it’s a struggle to remain standing.

“Zev,” she warns – regrets doing so when he pulls himself from her. Letting go of her wrist to turn her, press her back onto the bed. She scrambles back and he follows her, a hunting look on his face, hands on her legs, spreading them open as he kneels between them. He reaches blindly for the pillow, and she raises her hips as he positions it under her. The kiss is sloppy, desperate, as he takes himself in hand and finds her entrance once again. Pushing inside as he kneels back, holds her hips tightly.

Arms above her head as she watches him, legs locked around his waist, heels pressed into his ass. He is concentrated completely on his task, watching the way her breasts bounce with each heavy thrust, feeling the way she grows even tighter around him. “Noya,” he says, one hand leaving her hip to press a thumb against her clit, “come for me.” Her hands tangle in the blankets as she closes her eyes, tips her head back. She doesn’t need to be told twice. She comes to in time to see the desperation on his face.

The muted groaning, the way he holds himself so tightly. The look of a dying man, giving his life for a cause. He pulls himself from her at the last moment, a hand wrapping around his cock, stroking himself to completion, spills his seed on her belly. When he comes, the moan that escapes his lips is something halfway between orgasm and a pleading thanks for a generous god. “ _Dios mío_.”


	194. Rings (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a friend

He holds it out to her, shining, in the palm of his hand. Lyna crosses her arms, leans forward, and looks at it for a moment. She does not reach for it, and instead glances back up at him, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “That’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,” she says. Zevran’s eyebrows shoot up. He looks down at the earring, pinches it between two fingers and holds it in front of his face. Squinting as he looks at it, examining it closely.

“Truly?” Closing his fist, letting his hand drop. “I thought that honor belonged to Oghren,” he says. She scoffs and looks upwards as she thinks. Pursing her lips, a tilt of her head, and finally, concession of agreement with a nod. She puts a hand on his shoulder, a gentle push, a wordless direction for what he wants. He lets himself flop backwards on the bed, rose petals rustling slightly at his disturbance.

He had pictured it so romantically. The shirt, the petals, the rose clutched between his teeth – and the offering, the proposal, the earring. Perhaps he thought she might swoon, but no, that wasn’t her way. Instead all she had given was a flat demand for an explanation. Quite genuine, and he would not want it any other way.

She crawls after him, a knee on either side of him. Hands at his collar, fingertips that move through the ruffles. The barest touch against the skin of his chest. He holds his fist between them. “Lyna, _amor_. Will you accept it? Me?” He opens his fist slowly, and there it sits. A hand leaves his collar as she picks it up cautiously.

“My ears aren’t pierced,” she says. His hands at her hips, wrapping around her waist as he pulls her closer.

“I can do that for you,” he says, “is that a yes?” She’s pursing her lips again, this time for a different reason, as she looks at it. Holding it tightly as she reaches out, squishes his cheeks together, and plants the kiss fiercely on his lips. Hands splayed against her back, her hands warm against his cheeks. They part with a gasp.

“It’s still hideous,” she tells him.


	195. Worry, Care (Cassandra x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: F!inquisitor and Cassandra Pentaghast pairing. Cassandra had rejected the Inquisitor's advances previously, believing she is not worthy of the Inquisitor's attention. The Inquisitor got hurt during an expedition. Cassandra reacts.

She puts herself in places she does not belong. It is Cassandra’s job to guard the front lines, to keep the enemies at bay, but here stands the Inquisitor. Sweeping the blade of her staff against the grass, and winter follows it. Ice that grows from nothing, vines of pale blue, wrapping around the feet and legs of the venatori. There is grace to her every move, a dance in the very line of her, and power in the backbone, in the square of her shoulders, glance of her eyes. Only a select few deserve her. There have been… conversations. Cassandra has denied her, her own feelings, each and every time.

“Stay behind me, Inquisitor!” Cassandra tells her.

“Where’s the fun in that?” A flashing grin as she darts forward, the grumble from Cassandra following in her wake. She sees it before the Inquisitor does. The shield, the charge, the grunt, and the Inquisitor goes down into the dirt. Varric hisses in sympathetic pain at the sound of the hit, but there’s only some strangled noise of concern from Cassandra. With a wild shout, she descends on the one who _dared_ touch her.

Metal flashes in the sunlight, a flurry of blows as she uses her sword not unlike a bludgeon, raining down hit after hit. The ventatori buckles to his knees under her might, and she gives him the swift end he does not deserve. Turning to see the Inquisitor on her hands and knees, coughing air back into her lungs. Without hesitation, without checking to see if Varric and Vivienne have the situation in hand, Cassandra goes to her.

“I told you to stay behind me,” Cassandra says, oh so scolding. She reaches down and extends a hand. The Inquisitor takes it and Cassandra pulls her to her feet. She rubs her temples, shakes her head, and Cassandra’s hand moves to her arm, and holds her steady.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Just got a bit winded,” she groans, and Cassandra reaches for her face with her other hand. Brushing the dirt away from her cheek, and the touch lingers.

“You could have been killed! You are far too reckless! Do you have any idea how much I –” Cassandra’s words die in her mouth as the Inquisitor smiles, leans into her touch. Her own hand moving upwards, resting over Cassandra’s, keeping it there.

“How much you…?”

“ _Worry_ for you.” It was meant to be _care_ , but under the light of the Inquisitor’s smug smile, Cassandra doesn’t dare admit it. A lazy arm draped over Cassandra’s shoulder as she leans forward, presses a kiss to the tip of her nose. The Inquisitor leaves her sputtering, face flushed red.


	196. Throats (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Inquisitor getting injured while closing a rift

Mahanon pulls the arrow free of the demon, now ashes where it once lay. Putting it back into his quiver, and he looks up at the rift. It oozes with fade, drips as the raw wound it is. His arm shivers in anticipation, the anchor practically mewling with the desire to eat it whole. He holds his hand in front of him, watches as the anchor sputters and pulses, breathes with want. “Do you ever wonder how the anchor recognizes a rift?” He asks aloud, to no one in particular.

“Honestly I’m quite surprised that no one has insisted on studying the anchor,” Dorian says.

“Perhaps once Solas has the orb he will be able to tell us more. He was able to explain very little of it when he studied it before. While you slept, Inquisitor,” Cassandra says as she sheaths her sword.

“Not very reassuring,” Vivienne says, with an upturn of her chin, some unimpressed glance. “It should be properly examined. Samples taken, behavior tested. If it is a tool that could be used with some greater purpose, should we not take that chance?” Mahanon closes his hand into fist.

“On second thought, I don’t wonder about the anchor at all,” he says. Dorian guffaws laughter at Vivienne’s suddenly disapproving expression. Mahanon grins as he stretches out his hand, opens his fist, and the first link is forged. The anchor is always hungry, and now, it begins to eat its fill.

“I think you should start locking your door at night, dear Inquisitor, lest Vivienne and Dagna kidnap you and drag you down to her dungeon,” Dorian tells him. Mahanon’s laughter is cut by metal, a wheeze, and a blood-tipped arrow plants itself in the grass behind him. The chain from the anchor to the rift falters, falls away, as Mahanon clamps hands around his neck. Eyes wide, and he’s stumbling backwards.

It takes a few moments for Dorian to register exactly what’s happened. The staff falling from his hands as he races forward, catches Mahanon in his arms, goes slowly to his knees. In his arms, he gurgles noise, some sick attempt at words. Dorian’s only vaguely aware of Cassandra shouting towards some nearby cliff, of Vivienne’s magic arcing over in that direction. Instead, he cradles Mahanon tight in his arms, puts a hand over his.

The arrow had ripped right through his throat. Right through his _throat_.

“Sto – stop trying to talk. Mahanon,” Dorian says. Still wide-eyed with panic, glossy with tears, the blood bubbling at his lips. Trying to force the magic down into him, what little healing he can offer, but the anchor has always interfered with magic. He hopes Mahanon doesn’t feel him tremble. “You have to move your hand, I’m sorry.” Gaping red, and Mahanon is winding his fist in his robes, trying to pull himself closer. Warm against Dorian’s palm, bleeding through his fingers.

His gaze is wandering, and he’s trying to swallow – pale when he never was, his fist holding tightly, strands of hair against a sweat slick forehead. “Look at me,” Dorian whispers and somehow Mahanon finds his way back to him, “just look at me. Don’t look away. I have you.” Dorian holds his gaze, and does not break it. “I have you,” but the grip Mahanon has is failing, blinking quickly. He’s trying to say something but the words – the gaze falters, falls away, and Mahanon’s hand slumps limp against the grass.

“Mahanon?” Twisted, strangled in his throat. “No, no, no, don’t leave me, no, I have you, please –”


	197. Settling Down (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: How about we put the gun down and talk about this?” ~from your prompt list :)

“I hate doing groceries, can’t we just do it tomorrow?” Hawke groans as they pull up to the red light. Fenris chuckles, shakes his head.

“We can’t exist on fast food forever,” he says. Some noisy vehicle pulls up beside them, all windows down. The driver looks over, pulls down his sunglasses, and leans over.

“Hey,” he calls into their car. Both Fenris and Hawke look over at him. “A waste for a chick like you to be with an elf like that.” Fenris watches as Hawke’s knuckles immediately go white.

“It’s not worth it,” he tells her as she shifts the car into park. The worry only grows as she slams a fist against the sunroof button. “Put the sunroof back. Let’s talk about this. Hawke, Hawke, don’t–” She’s already unbuckled, standing up on her seat. Wedging a foot underneath him as she steadies herself, standing through the sunroof. She plants her elbows firmly on the roof of the car and leans over.

“Hey. Hey! What the _fuck_ did you just say to me?” Fenris is holding onto her legs as she’s practically pulling herself through the sunroof. “What the **fuck** did you just say to me?” Fenris is at least satisfied to see that the man is physically leaning away from her, even from the safety of his car.

“I know what kind of person you are,” she seethes, “you’re the kind of person others only _tolerate_. You’ve never had a real friend in your life. Anyone you’ve talked to is to polite to tell you to fuck off, but believe me, they’re thinking it. You just have an aura of annoyance and you have the face of–” The light turns green, and Fenris doubts he’s ever hit the gas pedal faster. “Yeah you better fucking drive away!” Hawke flashes two twin birds after him. Her cheeks are still red with anger as she drops back down into her seat.

She shakes her head, brushing stray strands of hair out of her face, and buckles herself in. Listening to the mechanical sound of the sunroof closing, and Fenris is covering his mouth with his hand. “Do you feel better?” He asks.

“Let’s get some fucking groceries,” she says and at that, the laughter bursts free from him.


	198. Blankets (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Stop hogging all the blankets!" For pavellan, please?

Wax drips down the candle, onto the plate by which he carries it. A hand cupped around the flame as he slowly trudges up the stairs, finds his way to a closed door. Pushing it open with his shoulder, and he very carefully sets the candle down on the desk. Looking over at the bed, and he smiles at the sight. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of it. Snuffing out the candle quickly, room bright with moonlight. He makes his way over the bed quickly, carefully, slowly lowers himself.

Reaching for the edge of the blanket, trying to claim some of it for himself. The hold Dorian has on it, however, is ironclad. Kisses against his shoulder, fluttering things against the nape of his neck. Listening to the soft sounds of his sleep, the relaxed breathing, broken by Mahanon’s attempt to gently wake him. “Dorian,” he murmurs, “I’d like some blankets, please.” A deep inhale as Dorian turns over, blinking unevenly to find him there.

“You’re late,” he says, a voice hoarse with sleep. Mahanon leans over, a hand at his cheek, presses a kiss to his forehead.

“I know. I’m sorry. Josephine had some treaties that I needed to –”

“Shh,” Dorian says, his eyes closed already, as he links arms around Mahanon’s neck, pulling him down, and Mahanon has no choice but to curl himself around Dorian, legs entwined and an arm thrown over his chest. Burying his face into the crook of Dorian’s neck as he smiles, listens to Dorian fade into sleep once again.

He still only has a sliver of blanket.

He doesn’t mind.


	199. The Body (Cassandra x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Don’t die on me– Please. ” Cassandra Pentaghast and Female Inquisitor. Maximum angst, please! Thank you!

Cassandra feels the weakness in herself. Her sword drips with blood, limp and loose in her hand. Her shield is an anchor, some intolerable weight. Sweat drenches her back, dirt streaked across her face. Her lungs burn with the effort of the battle, and the fear still follows her. Not the fear of fighting for her own life. Fear of losing sight of the Inquisitor, disappearing into the fray. Those others who have survived also walk the battlefield. They gather under the Inquisition’s banner, although the Inquisition has long been disbanded. There are no other banners left. Stepping over bodies, fallen swords. Eyes that close forever, shields that stay broken. Cassandra searches for one, and one alone.

Tracks, in the mud. Evidence, of someone crawling away. Weak on bloodied knees, broken bone. Away from the battle, into the forests that border the field. She follows the red that stains the grass, the leaves. Cracked branch, broken twig. She lets the sword slip from her grasp. The shield, falling to the ground. Slow and steady steps, towards a quietly streaming brook. Water over moss and grass, small rocks and stone, the heels of boots. She has found herself a tree. Laying beneath it, in a bed of wildflowers.

Cassandra slowly kneels beside her. Her eyes are still open, glossy and glazed, unable to see the way the leaves shift in the wind. The patches of blue sky that open up, the twisting green that comes loose, falls to earth, to be swept away in the stream. She doesn’t know that the fighting has ended. She had crawled away, found a quiet place to die.

Cassandra reaches out with trembling fingers, wraps a hand around her wrist. Holding her tightly, but her Inquisitor doesn’t stir. There’s sweat on her brow, dirt streaked across her face. Dried blood streaming from her nose, red upon slightly parted lips. Cassandra leans forward, bends without breaking, and rests her forehead against hers. How many times had they done this before, wrapped up together, listening to each other breathe? There is nothing now. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she says, “you weren’t supposed to leave me.”


	200. Anything People (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "You make it so hard to like you” Fenris and Anders

He’s walking back from the market when he sees it. Sitting on the steps, tail coiled around itself. Completely black, but bright blue eyes – like Hawke. Fenris kneels down slowly, extends his hand towards it. The cat stares at it for a moment before moving forward, eyes closing as it rubs its face against his hand. “Hello,” Fenris says softly, “nice to meet you.” Scratching behind ears, and he smiles at the rumbling purr. Standing up straight, shifting the bag of food to his other hand, continuing his walk home. Distracted by taking the key from his belt, putting it in the lock, he almost doesn’t hear the meow behind him.  

“I have nothing for you,” he tells the cat, who simply stares up at him. Shaking his head as he opens the door, watches as the cat saunters through. Fenris sets out a small bowl of water, some shredded and cooked chicken. He bends down near it as it eats, hands on his knees, resting his chin on his knuckles. “I apologize for not having fish, but I do not like the smell.” The cat doesn’t seem to mind.

Fenris lights the fire in the evening, sits in the chair nearby with a book. He moves it out of the way however, when the cat hops up. Kneading paws against his thighs as it circles, settles, curls into his lap. It sleeps much the same way, nestled in Fenris’s arms. Hawke raises her eyebrows when she sees it in the morning. “I didn’t think you were a cat person,” she says as it twists around Fenris’s ankles fondly. “Here I thought I might convince you to get a mabari or two.”

She’s sitting while he cooks breakfast, her elbow on the table and chin on her hand. “I am not an _anything_ person. It is the one who has claimed me, not the other way around,” he tells her. She smiles as the cat practically climbs him, stands on his shoulders. He continues on with the cooking, gives the cat a small piece of ham.

“I’m thinking of taking it to Anders. He’d know more of what to do with a cat,” he says as he sits down with her. Hawke reaches out, gives it a small scratch on the head.

“What a shame,” she says, “you two seem quite attached.” 

It follows him faithfully down into Darktown, into the clinic. Fenris leans against a wall, crosses his arms, waits for Anders to be done with his patients. Fenris gives him an acknowledging nod when Anders catches his eye, as he speaks to a woman sitting on a cot. After she leaves, he makes his way to him. “What do you want?” he asks.

“I’ve brought you a patient,” Fenris says.

“Not you, I hope.”

“No,” he says, looking down at the cat at his feet. Anders follows his gaze, and his expression brightens. He kneels so quickly, it’s almost as if he’s fallen to the ground.

“Oh aren’t you a sweet little precious thing, yes you are, with your little whiskers, come here baby,” he coos as he reaches out, takes the squirming cat into his arms.

“I don’t know how to properly care for a cat. I assumed you would be able to,” he says.

“You assumed correctly,” Anders says, practically squashing it in his embrace. There’s only a slight pang of regret as Fenris leaves the clinic.

That night, in bed, Fenris wakes to paws kneading into his arm. Rolling over, blinking in the darkness, bright blue eyes staring back at him. A gentle mew, and the cat nuzzles its head against his. Fenris scratches it behind his ears. “I see you’ve escaped. I don’t blame you. Anders does make it difficult to like him,” he says. Walking in circles on his chest, before it settles, letting Fenris continue to pet it. “I suppose you can stay.” It will need a name, but they’ll discuss that with Hawke in the morning. For now, they sleep curled up together.


	201. Hunger (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: This is a bit weird but could you maybe write dorian with an inquisitor who suffers from Chronic pain? I love reading the stuff you write it makes my day so much brighter! Much love!

It sears into bone and blood, an aching fire that wracks from finger to shoulder, his arm shaking uncontrollably. Clenching his teeth as he forces his hand into a fist, bundling it to his chest, curling in a ball. Stray hair curls in a sweat soaked forehead, squeezing his eyes closed, and all that’s left to do is _feel_ it. Feel it, he does. His mind begs to stray away from the pain, but the pain pulls him back. To think on it directly is to somehow feel it worse, a sharp and swift stab. It’s getting worse, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want to show it. So wrapped up in this, he doesn’t hear the door open.

“Oh… _amatus_.” That – that he does hear. Opening his eyes to see Dorian kneeling on the bed, to feel himself being pulled into his arms. Nestling his head in the crook of his neck, and Dorian holds him tightly. One hand over his, the gentle insistence at showing. Lavellan slowly opens his fist. The anchor is angry, hungry. It usually contents itself with eating rifts but now he fears it’s eating him. Red marks from where his fingernails bit into flesh, the green fade in every line of his palm, the veins of his wrist. “How often does this happen?”

“It’s not always this bad,” Lavellan tells him.

“So it’s constant, then.” Slipping a hand over his, hiding the sparked green, and Lavellan can feel the probing bits of his magic around the edges, trying to find a way to heal a hurt that cannot be fixed. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” Dorian asks. Disappointment, but more than that, concern, twists in his knotted brows, the downturn of his lips. He isn’t sure. Perhaps it’s because speaking it aloud might make it more real, or perhaps it’s because he didn’t want the pity. The worry that might haunt his every step, as though he is glass, as though this will stop him. He doesn’t need to be lead, looked after. He just wants to live.

“I don’t want anyone to know,” Lavellan says, twisting himself from Dorian’s grasp, wrapping a fist in his tunic. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

“I promise,” Dorian says, his hand still clamped around Lavellan’s. “As long as you promise to let me help you.” Lavellan frowns. “I won’t stop you from doing what you want. But no more of this… hiding in your room, alone. Let me be here for you.” Reaching out with his other hand, to the nape of Lavellan’s neck. Pulling him close, forehead against forehead.

“I promise,” Lavellan says softly.


	202. I Want (Dorian x M!Inquisitor) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: oh hi there. ‘because i prayed this word: i want.’ please and thank you, any pairing!!

“And now?” he asks.

“I’m gotten,” Dorian says. The grin spreads across Mahanon’s face as he turns to face him, reaching upwards, his palm against his cheek. Closing his eyes as he leans forward, the first touch of lips against lips. A heavy inhale, the deeper kiss, cupping Dorian’s face as he lets his arms wrap around Mahanon’s waist. Splaying against his back, traveling under his shirt, up his spine and they press against each other, into each other. Swaying in place until Dorian is finally forced to step back, lean against that desk, and Mahanon’s hands move from his face.

The sound of metal, working at the straps and buckles, as Mahanon’s tongue slips inside his mouth. They’ve kissed like this before, of course, but now there is some glorious purpose waiting at the end of it all. Some chill of anticipation, the eagerness of want. Opening up Dorian’s shirt, hands that move against his skin. Over chest and belly, the curve of his hips. Dorian’s own fingers are slipping to Mahanon’s waistband, cupping his ass, and Mahanon shifts against him. Dorian opens his eyes only briefly as they shift.

Mahanon’s eyes are still closed. Long, dark, lashes, black on bronze and there’s a flush in his cheeks. Wisps of hair escape that messy bun of his, curl at his face, tucked behind long red-tipped ears. A groan in his throat as Dorian feels his belt being undone, unable to hear it under heavy breath and the wet desire of Mahanon’s mouth. Their eyes open as Mahanon pulls back. Looking at each other, half-lidded, lips red with attention. The flat of Mahanon’s hand presses against Dorian’s stomach. “Yes?” he asks. Dorian wraps a hand around his wrist, guides him lower.

Traveling up his arm, resting over his shoulder, a low groan and a head tipped back as Mahanon wraps his hand around the base of his cock. Leaning forward, his head at the crook of Dorian’s neck. Teeth at his throat, a kiss of apology, and he leaves another mark. One of Dorian’s hands is still on his ass, squeezes him tightly, towards him, as Mahanon begins to stroke. Lithe but strong hands, worn from wielding a bow, scarred from all the things he’s made, the skill he learned. Teeth again, at his collarbone. A kiss to the goblet of his throat.

Down betwixt his chest, and Mahanon slowly goes to his knees. The chill returns when he looks upwards, his lips just there, almost touching his cock. That long scar over his eyebrow and - green eyes bright, and oh, the darker forest of his _vallaslin_. Tongue, pomegranate red, running along the base of Dorian’s cock. His hands clench against the desk, fingers biting into wood, as Mahanon closes his eyes and goes to his task. His mouth is a heaven, a prayer, warm and wet. Dorian’s eyes flutter, and he lets his head fall back. Feeling those hands still wrapped there, gentle strokes in time with all the rest.

Mahanon’s tongue flicks around the head of him, touches the base, a hard press, just there, tasting his salt. He takes him as deeply as he can, obscenely so, and groans. Dorian feels it, gasping as he does, hunching over. Looking at him, that damnable hair. Reaching down, finding the tie of his hair. Gently loosing it, and the rich waves of it fall. Dorian keeps a lock in his hand, twisting between his fingers. Threading his hand through it all, trying to resist the urge to thrust forward. Mahanon’s hands are on his thighs, moving upwards to his hips, and he opens his eyes again.

“I’m close,” Dorian tells him. Mahanon leans back, his cock coming free with a vulgar pop, and he rubs the spit from his mouth with the back of his arm. Springing upwards, planting a small kiss against Dorian’s lips. He’s reaching for the edges of his shirt, pulling it over his head. Dorian discovers that the lines of his _vallaslin_ do not simply end at his neck. They cover his chest, curl around his hips, like vines over his spine. Mahanon reaches for the hem of his pants, pushes them down until they fall.

“You wear so many layers,” he says with a grin as he steps forward, helps Dorian with his many straps and belts. “What purpose does it serve?”

“It makes you work for your dinner,” Dorian tells him. The laughter bubbles upwards, bursts from him, dimples on his cheeks as he shakes with it. Open mouthed and bright, eyes shining.

“I’m starving,” Mahanon says, once his laughter settles. Stepping free of his pants, capturing Mahanon’s lips with his kiss. Mahanon allows himself to be walked backwards towards the bed, to fall upon in. Dorian, on hands and kneels, crawling over his body.

“Should we prepare you?” Dorian asks, gentle teeth at his earlobe.

“I’ve already done most of it,” Mahanon says. Dorian looks at him, eyebrows raised.

“Did you think you were the only one who was eager to fuck?” Mahanon asks. “When you asked me to come up here, I thought this would be what it was for.”

“So confident, were you?”

“I know what I want,” he says. “I only prayed you wanted me too.” Dorian’s cock twitches at the sound of that, the vocal reassurance of it. His kiss is reply, inhaling the air of Mahanon’s lungs. Dorian lets himself lie on his side, so close to him, a hand moving down his body. Explorative touch, a seeking for something he doesn’t know. Mahanon is already leaking salt by the time Dorian greets it, and Mahanon raises his hips upwards, fucking against his hand. Wrapping an arm around Dorian’s neck, “there’s oil in the left drawer,” murmured against his ear.

Dorian rolls over, opens the drawer, and sure enough – he sees the vial. Taking it as he then goes to kneel at the end of the bed. Spreading Mahanon’s legs, a hand on each knee, and Mahanon smirks as he stretches arms above his head. Bending his legs around Dorian, and his hair gathers around his head, an earthy halo. Biting his bottom lip as fingers press against his entrance, slick with oil, generously poured. He thought it would be cool, but he finds it warm, courtesy of Dorian’s magic. Toes curling into the bedsheets as he presses a finger inside. “Dorian,” a breathy exhale, and somehow his name sounds better coming from his mouth than from anyone else’s.

With his other hand, he slowly strokes Mahanon’s cock. His feet press into the bedsheets, unable to still, as his hands wrap around the small posts of the headboard. Turning his face, moaning against his arm, and knuckles white as Dorian gives him shallow thrusts, adds another finger. “You said you know what you want. How long had you wanted this?” Dorian asks him. Mahanon’s eyes flutter open, his face only barely turning down to look at Dorian.

“Since I first saw you. You were the most gorgeous creature I had ever laid eyes on,” he tells him.

“Flatterer,” he says.

“Only truth.” A grin, a groan, a gasp and Dorian feels Mahanon’s legs tighten around him as he finds that spot, beginning to massage it. Mahanon’s hips move of their own accord, tiny thrusts upwards, and a low moan at the third finger. Leaking freely now, and Dorian’s hand moves from his cock, holds his hip. He doesn’t want him to come too soon. “I’m ready,” Mahanon gasps, “Dorian, I’m ready.” He stays there a few moments longer, watching as Mahanon twists under his touch. A growl as Mahanon pushes himself forward.

Away from Dorian’s touch, hands on his shoulders. Dorian is kneeling, yes, but so is he, around him, over him. Reaching down, finding his cock, holding him steady as Mahanon lowers himself. The hand still on Dorian’s shoulder squeezes tightly, while Dorian’s hands move against his back. He promises himself he will learn the pattern of his _vallaslin_ , to be able to follow the lines without looking. For now, he travels the known road of his spine, fingers over bone. His hair brushes against his knuckles, the back of his hands. Mahanon wraps his arm completely around Dorian’s neck, moves down for a kiss.

A sloppy thing, a comforting move, as Mahanon buries Dorian inside him to the hilt, takes a few moments to adjust. Forehead against forehead as Mahanon begins to move, a hand at the nape of Dorian’s neck, upwards through his hair.

“Good?” Dorian asks him.

“Yes,” Mahanon breathes. Lips meet, lips part, and Mahanon’s cock is leaking pre-cum against his belly, a line of his movements.

“Why haven’t we done this sooner?” Grateful for the low chuckle.

“We were being patient,” Mahanon says. That patience is at an end. Holding Mahanon as Dorian surges forward, forces his back onto the bed, his legs wrapping around his waist. Holding tight to Mahanon’s hips, fucking him hard and in earnest. He’d fallen sideways, and that hair of his is slipping off the side of the bed, a silken waterfall. Mahanon reaches downwards, wrapping a hand around his own cock, matching Dorian’s quick pace.

“ _Vhenan_ , please, I’m so close,” he says. Dorian puts a hand over his, jerking him off together, and he feels him clench beneath him. The groan catches in his throat as he comes, cock twitching before he spills rivulets of seed over his own belly. The sight of it, Mahanon coming undone so because of him, is more than enough for Dorian. Clenching his jaw tightly, stars behind his eyelids, and as he spills his seed inside of Mahanon, lets go of the breath he doesn’t realize he was holding. He collapses over him, without a care, Mahanon opening his arms wide to catch him.

They both breathe quickly, flushed so, and Dorian’s mind is slowly finding itself once again. Scattered thought pulling itself together, until it feels safe enough to speak. Raising himself up slightly over him, looking at Mahanon beneath him. He’s smiling, brushing fingertips over the birthmark by Dorian’s eye. “ _Vhenan_ ,” Dorian says, “what does that mean?” Mahanon’s smile deepens, and he takes a breath before he goes to speak.


	203. To Stay (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: hi again! ❛❛ Please stay with me tonight. I don’t want to be alone. ❜❜ any pairing pls ily

A rare thing, for proper music to be played in the Hanged Man. Rarer, to see anyone willingly dance. Perhaps it’s the above-average tasting ale, or perhaps it’s simply the mood of it. The desire to shake off what’s happened to their city. Things have changed, and no one is sure if it’s for the better. Not yet. It’s too soon to tell. It’s a tension, a million people holding their breath. So they force it, and they dance. Smiles and laughter, stomping feet and alcohol that spills from overflowing cups. Two, in the corner, softly swaying.

Her hand in his, his arm around her waist, hers wrapped over his shoulder. Her fingers play with the soft wisps of hair at the nape of his neck, and they keep their heads close together. Moving softly together, whispered words for no one else to hear. Not that any others pay attention to them. To glance at them is to feel like an intruder, some private moment not meant for anyone else. “Please stay with me tonight,” Fenris says. Hawke doesn’t reply right away, moves even closer to him. Her mouth against his shoulder, quietly thinking.

Rubble, falling stone. They had come back from the Gallows to find the Hawke estate once again in disrepair. Hawke, broken and bloodied, could only stare at it. She had been staying with Aveline while they discussed patrols, repairs, funds. Varric was always a part of those talks, and somehow the three of them were going to pull Kirkwall back from the brink. Of that, Fenris had no doubt. His mansion had escaped the worst of it. Safe, but for the dust and a few pebbles. He knows how Hawke must feel.

Her mothers room was gone. All her belongings, burned to dust. She had kept Bethany’s scarf in a locked box in that room. Gone, in a single evening. He knows she would sleep among the rubble if she could. Hawke was stubborn that way, refusing to give up what was already lost. He knows she wants to spend the night with the others again, late discussions, heads over maps, charts, coin, but there are dark circles under her eyes. “I don’t want to be alone,” he says, but more than that, he misses her. 

Her hand slips from his, their swaying stops. Wrapping arms around him, burying her face against his chest, and she hugs him roughly, holds him tightly. “I’ll come,” he hears her say, muffled against him. She looks up, stands on her toes, and presses a kiss against his lips. “I’m sorry.” He holds her face in his hands.

“It is not your fault,” he tells her. “It has taken a toll on everyone.” Her, most of all. His Hawke, and he aches to help her more. The most he can do, for the moment, is stay by her side.


	204. A Little Longer (Cullen x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Just stay a little longer. Please." for the pairing of your choice? <3

Few know about the tunnels beneath Skyhold. The little corners with shelves of books, pages yellowed with age. Spiders make their home from long untouched torches, spinning webs in the dark. Dust lines the cobble, and there’s never been a need to clear them out. Cullen carries a candle, wax dripping onto the plate. A hand around the flame, protecting it as he walks. This way, he’s able to move quickly, unseen, without any stopping him. That is, until he hears it.

Small bells, trinkets that hang from the head of his staff. Tied with twine, crystals and figurines, dried flowers wrapped around the stone. He feels it soon after. The spread of warmth, his magic blanketing over his surroundings. “Inquisitor,” Cullen calls out down the hallway. Letting him know of his presence, the obstacle in his way. Trevelyan needs no lights, his eyes as dark as the space around him. They meet somewhere in the middle, and Alexi smiles. One hand moving off his staff, reaching out, tugging some of the fur on Cullen’s cloak.

“Good evening, Commander,” he says. “Walking alone?” His hand slips from his cloak, wraps back around the staff. Two bells chime together quietly, from the disturbance. Cullen nods, and then corrects himself.

“I am, and I see you are as well. I’m surprised you’re not with others,” he says. Alexi is always wrapped up in long, oversized, sweaters. Things of color, of comfort. To Cullen, he always seems a fire on some cool autumn day. Burning orange, deeper browns, darker beige and amber reds. Wool and warmth, dark curling hair and freckles on his cheeks. A birthmark over his lip, mirrored by the scar sitting on Cullen’s own lip. Grateful, then, that Alexi can’t see him blush, turn away.

“I find the tunnels less confusing to walk. Less people,” Alexi says, “and I think you’re just hiding.” Cullen clears his throat, coughs out a chuckle.

“You’ve caught me out. Leliana has had scouts running after me all day,” he says.

“One day she’ll realize you’re going into the tunnels, and then you’ll never have another moment’s peace,” he tells him. Softly smiling, half leaning into the staff, leaning forward.

“Maker rue the day,” Cullen sighs. Alexi is reaching out, putting a hand on Cullen’s cloak once again. Threading fingers through the fur, moving upwards.

“If there’s no one else here,” Alexi says, “then why are we talking so formally?” Cullen almost groans, drops the candle. His staff rests against him, bells hanging over his shoulder. A hand to the nape of Cullen’s neck, fingers twisting the curling hair that wisps there. Alexi leans down, his palm at his neck, his thumb brushing against the stubble on Cullen’s jaw. The candle dips, tumbles, clatters to the ground as Cullen reaches out, arms wrapping around Alexi’s waist, pulling him forward.

“I feel like,” exhaling the words between each desperate kiss, “I haven’t been able to touch you in ages.” Alexi lets the staff fall out of their way as he puts arms over Cullen’s shoulders, leans against him. Curling against him like a cat, Cullen’s hands splayed against his back. In that quietly dark tunnel, a whimpered moan, lip bit between teeth. Tongue against tongue, the heavy inhale, the shuddered exhale. The slightest _oof_ as Alexi’s back hits the wall, as Cullen pushes against him, hands on his hips. A sweater is hanging off his shoulder, and the candle is starting to sputter, fade.

“Others might start to look for us,” Cullen says. Alexi is breathing heavily, cheeks flushes, and brushes his nose against Cullen’s.

“Let’s stay here,” Alexi whispers, “just a little longer. Please.” The candle finally dims, extinguishes itself, and they take no notice.


	205. Dreaming Sleep (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “He’s dead because of you” Fenris reads Varric’s letter before Hawke can see it. He gets rid of it and heads for the inquisition in her place without her knowledge. She finds out too late and he is left in the fade before she get there

In dreaming sleep, she searches for him. She leaves the safety of the spaces she has built for herself, walks paths without places, homes without shelter. Over rock and twisting maze, she calls his name. He has been left, but she will not let him be alone. He is curled up in some forgotten place, knees to his chest, head down, hands pressed against his ears. Kneeling down before him, she reaches out, and hates how she cannot touch. Her hand passes through him, but he feels the chill and raises his head. Broken relief when he sees her.

“Fenris,” and her voice is an echo, so far away.

“Hawke,” and it sounds as though he speaks through water, drowning in the Fade. They are not alone. Despair languishes around her, chest against her back, wraps its arms around her neck. Its touch she feels, its tears cold on her cheeks. A dreaming mage is so bright a prey.

“He is here because of you,” and this she hears so clearly. Whispered words in her ear, a caress to her cheek. “He is dead because of you.”

“Fenris, we’re close. We’re going to get you out,” Hawke tells him. Terror sits beside him, a twisted reflection. Knees at its chest, arms wrapped around its legs. It opens its mouth to scream, some aching thing. Fear lingers close, leans over him, puts its hands on his shoulders.

 “You have left her to die alone. In heartbreak and agony, no family left to hold her hand,” it says to him. She aches to brush away the hair from his eyes. To take him in her arms, to hold him close. To replace those whispers with loving words, to tell him she knows why he chose this. Instead she holds her hand toward him, palm flat. He puts his hand as close to hers as possible, touching without being able to touch.

“Please hurry,” he tells her hoarsely.


	206. Burning (Cullen x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I know I just sent one, but the Sappho prompts were too good ;-; ‘you cooled my mind burning with longing.' with again, any pairing <3

A haze, a fog, some deep ache that drowns him, divorces him from knowing the world as it should be. His vision swims, his heartbeat pounds in his ears. The crushing jaws upon his skull are too familiar at this point. “Commander,” spoken so softly, “are you alright?” Cullen immediately stops rubbing the space between his brows, lets his hand come to rest on the hilt of his sword.

“Herald, yes. Yes, I’m fine,” he says. Alexi stands before him, breathing the fog of cool Haven air. His staff chimes as he walks forward, the little bells moving against one another.

“I was wondering if I could ask a favor,” Alexi says.

“Of course. What can I help you with?” He watches as Alexi walks forward, shifts his staff from one hand to the other, and that now free hand now slips underneath Cullen’s arm, holds it gently.

“Could you take me to where the alchemist’s workstation is?” Cullen is certain that Alexi knows the way. He had made himself a constant presence, working with Adan on new potions and balms. He would often come back to Haven with his arms full of herbs, his bags stuffed to the brim with the stuff. The path from the Chantry to the house is marked with rope for Alexi’s sake. But Cullen doesn’t question, and begins to slowly walk forward. Alexi stays close to him, matching his pace with ease.

“Thank you, Commander. What a lovely morning. Did you wake early?” Alexi asks.

“More that I did not sleep at all. There is much to be done to keep the peace between the mages and Templars you’ve brought to Haven. A lot of old anger lingers,” he says.

“Warranted anger,” a gentle correction. “I assume most of the mages won’t speak to you.”

“It has been – difficult, but we’re managing. They’re more than happy to bother Cassandra and Leliana,” Cullen tells him.

“I could be of use, as well. If they’d feel more comfortable speaking to a fellow mage,” Alexi says.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” They reach the door without trouble, and Cullen holds it open for him. “We’re here, Herald,” he says. Alexi keeps his hand around Cullen’s arm, and so, he walks him inside. Surprised, when his touch finally leaves him, only to close the door behind them both.

“Adan is away today. There’s no one else here. You know I’m a healer. I can sense the imbalance in you. I can – I can feel your pain,” Alexi says softly. The bells again, as the staff leans against him. Wrapped in his sweaters, and a scarf around his neck. There are snowflakes in his hair, slowly melting. His eyes are dark, but Cullen knows he sees more than others might. “Let me help you.” Alexi extends his hand towards him, an invitation. Cullen hesitates, and yet, he reaches out, puts his hand in his. Alexi smiles.

He reaches down, removes Cullen’s glove. Despite the winter chill, Alexi’s touch is warm. He reaches out with his other hand. A palm against his cheek, and Cullen immediately flushes with a warmth all his own. He knows he should not feel this way – Alexi is the Herald. Untouchable. A Trevelyan, a noble, and – and Cullen knows his sins. Knows he isn’t good enough. “You don’t have to hide the headaches from me,” Alexi says, “I’ll know anyway.” Cullen is grateful Alexi can’t see the way Cullen is looking at him. He knows he must look like some pathetic puppy dog.

“Thank you, Herald,” he says. The jaws are carefully torn away from him, tooth by tooth. The pounding recedes, his vision steadies. Alexi’s magic is as though he is pulling blankets around him, holding him close.

“I’m sure I’ve told you to call me Alexi,” he says, a thumb brushing across his cheek.

“I’m sure you have, Herald,” Cullen tells him. “Just as I’ve told you to call me Cullen.”

“I seem to remember you saying something of the sort, Commander,” Alexi smiles, and Cullen smiles as well. As the headache leaves, his thoughts become clear. A terrible longing, a want he doesn’t deserve to keep, a desire he should not speak. He says his name on quiet nights, a prayer on his tongue.


	207. Static (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: ❛ Everything hurts. Being with you is the only good thing in the world anymore. ❜❜ (Burn my word to ash with Fenhawk feels)

The room is aching static, the lingering sting of ambient magic. She burns with it, overflows with it, and it spills everywhere around her. It twists, entwines, curls with what Anders has weaved inside her. A web of his own magic, stitched around chest and belly, tied to the mountains of her spine and the rivers in her veins. She burns with it, and burns Fenris in turn. Still, he will not leave her side. His markings needle with pain, the skin around them red and raw. She lies in her bed, hair spilling darkly over pillows, pale in her skin and sweat on her brow. The fever came swift and sudden, the aftershocks of the true trauma.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees it. Standing on the sidelines, helpless, only a witness to the way the Arishok kicked her back, followed swiftly with his sword. The grim line of his mouth as he impaled Hawke, as she touched the blood slick metal with trembling hand. The scream, the groan, the gurgle of pain as he began to lift her above his head. Fenris wanted to run to her, to go to her, save her. Instead, he had stood there. Legs weak, arms shaking, eyes wide. The guilt still knots at him for that. Hawke, that hopeless look on her face, stretching out her hand. Fingertips that barely touched the Arishok’s cheek and the flash, the crack of lightning.

He thinks the fall might have been the worst part. The sword slipping from the Arishok’s grasp. It was the sound of it that set him running, racing to Hawke’s side. The rest is blurry memory, shaken by panic, curdled with fear. The chair is very close to her bed. Feet planted on the ground, and he leans forward. She lies on her side, facing him, her hands curled near her chest. He reaches out gently, cradles one in his. Palm against palm, and the other, thumb running over her knuckles. He holds it tightly, raises it slightly, presses a kiss against her fingers.

“Fenris.” Clouded blue in barely open eyes, voice hoarse from lack of use. “You’re here,” she says. He leans down very near to her, the chair shifting behind him as he goes to his knees.

“Yes,” he says. Lifting one of his hands from hers to take that strand of stray hair, tuck it behind her ear. She closes her eyes only briefly at the touch, breathes out softly. The tears fall without notice, without sound, pausing briefly at the edge of her nose only to fall.

“It hurts,” she says, and it’s a whimper, and he holds her hand tighter without realizing.

“I’ll fetch Anders,” he says.

“No,” she says quickly, “please don’t go.” Reaching out, a trembling hand at the nape of his neck. A gentle pull, and he does the rest, his forehead carefully touching against hers. She pulls herself closer with a wince, an arm around his neck and his arm around her. Between them, they still hold hands and he listens to the quiet tears of her, the shuddering breath. His markings roll with a tide of fire, and where she touches him, it screams agony. He doesn’t let go, does not distance himself.

“Hawke,” he says, “let me get Anders for you.” He says the words but does not move.


	208. Stains (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a friend

He’s still hers.

His _vallaslin_ has sickened, paled, scars on weathered skin. He wears the armor she saw him in last, covered in a grime she doesn’t recognize. He has been taken, twisted, cast back into the world. He has found his way back to her. “ _Vhenan_ , kill me,” Tamlen begs, “I don’t want to hurt you. Kill me. Please!” Her blade is already slick with the poisoned blood of the rest, the shrieks that screamed their way into the camp. Him, at the edges, desperately trying not to step forward. So she goes to him.

She wears armor of a different kind, now, but her _vallaslin_ is still whole, unblemished. His eyes are dark and desperate, pressing hands against his head, trying to keep the orders out. “Please,” he says again. Sniffled sobs as she opens her arms, trembling as she wraps them around him.

“Tamlen, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she says, broken words on a broken tongue, as he leans against her, holds her tightly. “This never should have happened.” His grasp is suffocating, shaking, his head pressed against her chest. He’s still hers. A darkspawn of her own making. A soft whimper as she buries the blade in his back.

“Lyna,” he murmurs on the exhale, with the relief. The grief is raw and ready as she slowly goes to her knees. Cradling him in her arms, holding him tightly to her chest. Throwing the blade out of reach, pressing her hand against the wound. Darkspawn blood oozes between her fingers, and it isn’t her fault, it isn’t her fault. The cry catches in her throat as she rocks back and forth, and he is cold to the touch and she is screaming, she is crying, she is begging. He’s still hers.

The others are only spectators to her grief, and can be little else. Zevran frowns, looks down at his hands. Palms flat upwards, studying the spotlessness of them. He had walked away, left her where she lay. Would his hands have been bloodied like Lyna’s, had he held Rinna? He had coldly continued, carried out their given orders. What her death had wrought – pushed him towards. If he had mourned, if he had grieved, if he had not killed her at all.

She’s still his.

Rinna has marked his life irrevocably, left a stain on his soul. Zevran looks at Lyna, his hands slowly lowering to his sides. He sees the same stain on her, now.


	209. Competition (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a friend

He thinks they must have been competing with each other to see who could be the first to lure him to the Hanged Man. Isabela tells him of how loud it is, the sound that can drown out every other thought. Merrill tells him of the laughter, the joy of the place. Varric tells him how the ale may not be as good as his wine, but hell, at least it’s alcohol. In the end, they lose to Hawke. All it takes is Ada simply asking him to come. They spoke of how loud the Hanged Man could be, as though they weren’t the loudest parts of it. Still – here he sits, at their table, part of their group and part of their loud.

Fenris holds the mug in his hands, stares at the amber liquid. A gaze that drifts upwards and there’s guts on the ceiling. Best not to think about what might be under his feet. The ale ripples, rolls, waves brought on by Isabela pounding her fists against the table, Aveline’s heavy elbow, and Anders’s restless legs. Ada is explaining something to Merrill, who covers her mouth with her hands and tries to catch the escaping giggles. Ada laughs along with her, pinks flushed with amusement, brushing hair behind her ears. Not unlike a field of wheat, swaying in the breeze, strands curling at her cheek. He looks back towards the ale when she looks at him.

Raising the mug to his mouth, tasting it on his tongue. Bitter, but not wholly unpleasant. It’s never been his alcohol of choice, but the rest seem to have no trouble with it. He finds it suits them, in a way. Rougher and rowdy, unsophisticated and yet palatable to all. Ada rests her elbows on the table, her hands at her cheeks, and a pleased smile on her lips. “Do you like it?” She asks him. Fenris thinks for a moment, shrugs his shoulders.

“It’s not – I can drink it,” he says. He smiles as she throws her head back and laughs.

“That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about it,” she tells him. He shrinks into himself as Isabela throws an arm around his shoulders. She’s grinning as she pulls him very near her, practically knocking their heads together. His hand at her wrist, carefully pulling him off of her. She doesn’t seem to mind, keeping one hand firmly at the top of his head. Bending over, pointing with the other at Hawke.

“Look. You two are our _drinkers_. We have to test how good this piss really is,” Isabela is saying with glittering eyes, mischief in the grin. “Drinking contest please.” The point is switching from Ada to Fenris, Fenris to Ada, and back again.

“I’m not sure,” Fenris holds the mug a little harder, white knuckles. He still feels it with the wine, even this ale. The feeling of _wrong_. He is breaking his Master’s rules, disobeying a command, tasting that which a slave should never taste. He found no pleasure in the forbidden, not at first. He needed to be able to run at any moment, and drinking complicated that. Any drink offered could be a trick, a poison, something to slow him, to catch him.

Claiming the mansion gave him the courage to dare. Descending into the wine cellar, fingertips over dusty bottles. Labels upon labels and only one he recognized. The distinct lettering, the symbol of the vineyard. The shape of the bottle, the ornate cork and he knew it was Aggregio. A thing of Magisters and riches. _That_ was tasting freedom. Enjoying easy nights with Hawke and Isabela, together slowly emptying the cellar. Drink after drink and never once had his senses dulled, even if he allowed himself to pass his self-set limit. He assumes it’s because of the lyrium.

Ada slaps her hand down on the table. “I am in,” she says, “as long as someone else is paying.” Both Isabela and Ada turn to look at the end of the table at the same time, and Varric sighs. Both women are batting their eyelashes, giving him flattering smiles. Varric throws up his hands in defeat.

“Fine, fine. I have to admit, I’m a little curious,” he says. Aveline is pinching the bridge of her nose.

“At least I know you won’t be able to move when you’re done. That should keep you out of trouble,” she says.

“And we have Anders if anything goes wrong!” Merrill pipes up.

“That is an absolute waste of magic,” Anders says, “but I suppose someone has to keep you from drinking to death.” Only one left. All eyes on him and Fenris is ready with the ‘no’ on his lips.

“Please? It’ll be fun,” Ada says. All his protests deflate into begrudging agreement, a slow nod. Delighted clapping from Merrill, and Isabela is immediately dragging Varric with her to the bar, using his hard earned coin to buy a few rounds of drinks. Ada, right across the table from him, casts him a dazzling grin as the mugs are put down before them. She reaches for one, raises it.

“A toast, to good company,” she says. Fenris raises his own, taps his against hers. With that, it begins. Closing eyes, head tipped back, gulping it down. There is no taste, not until that satisfied exhale, the slapping of the mug onto the table. She shakes her head, presses a fist against her chest and pounds it there. A single “ _blech_ ,” and Fenris chuckles. Ada leans forward, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing every inch of him that she can see.

“A chuckle, hmm? Are you feeling it already?” she asks.

“Hardly,” he tells her as he takes the next mug, his eyebrows raised. Lifting the mug in the air, looking down the length of the table. “To Varric’s coin.”

“Hear, hear,” Ada cheers. The toast brings hollering laughter from Isabela, an amused snort from Aveline. Varric simply mocks a bow from where he sits, opens his arms to his adoring fans and basks in their worship. A knock, a splash, a spill, the toast is made and the next drink is downed. There’s pink in Ada’s laughing cheeks now, and oh, how infectious the sound is. The longer they drink, the more ridiculous the toasts become.

“To Merrill’s spotless home,” Ada says.

“To Varric’s stone sense,” Fenris downs the next mug.

“Anders’s secret mastery over the Antivan language.”

“Isabela’s hidden hoard of gold.”

“To Aveline’s curtains matching the drapes,” Isabela cheers, stealing one of the mugs for herself and pounding it back before anyone else can stop her.

“To Hawke’s lovely hair,” Merrill smiles.

“Here’s to hoping I die in the Deep Roads,” Varric says.

“I miss my cat,” Anders sighs.

“Alright, enough!” Aveline says, rising to her feet. Reaching over the table, taking the mugs from Ada’s and Fenris’s hands. Plunking them over at her end of the table, crossing her arms and glaring at the others. “I am not going to be the one telling Hawke’s mother that she drank herself to death. I know the rest of you aren’t going to do it – so, enough.”

“Boo,” Ada drunkenly says as she fakes a pout. Aveline only rolls her eyes and shakes her head. She recruits an unwilling Merrill to help her bring the mugs back to the bar, entrusts Isabela to Anders. She promptly drapes herself over him, digging her chin into his shoulder. Varric stretches back in his seat and yawns.

Fenris slowly leans forward, arms crossing on the table, letting his head rest over them. Closing his eyes, listening to the sounds of the others. They’re so loud, and he smiles. He’s glad he’s a part of it. He feels gentle fingertips on his arm, a tap, a knock, and he raises his head slightly, looks up through the hair that falls gently over his eyes. Ada is mirroring him, arms crossed, chin resting on her wrists, with a grin on her face. “I like you,” she says.

Fenris feels a warmth blooming in his chest, spreading through every inch of him. He returns the grin, and tells her, “I like you too.” They look at each other, ignoring all that’s happening around them. There’s a flush in her cheeks and it might be from all the alcohol, but it might be from something more, and she’s biting her bottom lips. Her fingertips still rest against his arm, and they are points of fire, an ache he doesn’t want to ever stop.

“Fenris, I –” she means to continue, but then she looks at him again, taps his arm twice, “Fenris?” Curled up contently, the smile still on his face, eyes closed and soundly sleeping. “This means I win,” she murmurs, amused.

“Oh great,” Aveline says as she gets back to the table, “I can carry Fenris back to his mansion, but there is no way any of are going to be able to carry Ada.”

“We’ll just bring them too my room. They can sleep it off there. I can sleep in Varric’s room tonight,” Isabela says with a dismissive wave of her hand. Varric’s eyes immediately pop open, and he rolls right into the resigned sigh.

“Whatever makes you happy,” he says.

“Why am I doing this?” Anders asks with a scowl as he bends down, letting Isabela hoist Fenris onto his back.

“Because you’re helpful,” she tells him. Fenris secured, arms around Anders’s neck, he begins his journey to Isabela’s room in the Hanged Man. She whistles as she spins the key ring around her finger, a mocking bow as she opens the door. Anders deposits him quite ungracefully onto the bed, but Fenris only rolls over, fist closing gently over the edge of the pillow.

Meanwhile, Aveline is pulling Ada’s arm over her shoulders. “Come on big girl, I need you to help me out here,” she says. Ada is taller than all the rest of them, solid Ferelden stock through and through. If Aveline is a battering ram, then Ada is the castle walls. Merrill is doing her best at the other side, trying to encourage Ada up, and to lean against Aveline.

“Dun wanna,” Ada slurs, her eyes still closes.

“You gotta,” Aveline growls. With a grunt and groan, she manages to pull her to her feet, and half drag her towards the stairs. Whereas the others are colored by drink, Aveline is red from effort, breathing hard as she drops Ada like a stone onto the bed next to Fenris. Without hesitation, she rolls over and wraps her arms around his waist, buries her face against his back. Isabela claps her hands together, smiles gleefully.

“Oh, I can’t wait for _their_ morning,” she says.

“Right,” Aveline says, tugging Isabela out of the room by the ear. The rest of them follow her dutifully, and leave them be.

* * *

He wakes with a groan, presses a hand hard at the space between his brows. His head pounds, drums of a painful beat, and his eyes burn to open. Struggling to rise, and it’s not long before he figures out why. Ada murmurs in her sleep, holds him tighter to her. Fenris looks over his shoulder, sees her deeply passed out. It takes a moment before the events of last night come back to him. The stiff line of his shoulders relaxes, and the smile is slight – one could almost miss it. Fenris stops trying to get up, puts his head back against the pillow and decides that he’s always wanted to try sleeping in. He lets his hand rest over one of hers.


	210. Thoughts and Wants (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a friend

She turns around in wonder, mouth open, looking at the high ceilings of the Gallows, or – the Gallows that isn’t the Gallows. An almost perfect replication of it, complete with scuffs on the floor and banners with missing threads hanging on the wall. The only difference is the distinct feeling of _wrong_. A twisted mirror image, the edges blurry and details smudged. To look at one thing is to have the rest of it obscured, as though the Fade can only focus on creating one thing at a time. It’s disorienting, instills a deep sense of fear. Ada doesn’t seem to notice.

Her hair, that river of folded gold, usually shines. Here there is green tangled in the web of it, threads of a different sort. Fenris wants to draw his sword, to hold it in his hands. It would at least give him some semblance of grounded reality, comfort in the knowledge he could defend himself. Instead, he balls his hands into fists. “This is unsettling,” he says in a low voice.

“This is amazing! My dreams have never been like this. Is this how mages always dream?” Ada asks as she turns around to look at Anders. Much like the fade, Justice is static on the edges of him. Blurred blue, bright eyes.

“Not always,” he says, his voice layered deep, liquid with the spirit that calls him home.

“I’m with Fenris. This is weird as shit. I never want to be in the Gallows when I’m awake, why in the world would I want to be here in the Fade?” Isabela says.

“No fun, the lot of you,” Ada says. “Right, let’s find Feynriel and get out of here.” Walking through the empty hallways and their footsteps echo awkwardly, as though the Fade doesn’t quite know what to make of the sound. She tries the handle of each door they come across, and find each one locked. That is, until the last. It opens, and Ada walks through without hesitation, Anders following suit. Isabela and Fenris exchange a single glance before they enter.

“Is it empty?” Isabela asks.

“No,” Anders says. Ada shrugs as she looks around, sees nothing. In the corner, a figure steps forth from shadows. Licking its lips, pale purple flames between its horns. Walking without effort, as though weightless, and the desire demon runs hands over its body. Fenris immediately reaches up, wraps a hand around the hilt of his sword.

“Tell me,” it says, “of what do you seek?” Ada stares down at it, towering over it, unafraid and unaffected.

“Where’s Feynriel?” She asks. The demon leans forward, a pointed finger tracing the pointed edges of her armor.

“Further in. I can give you something better than the boy,” it says.

“No thanks,” Ada says cheerfully, turning to leave. The desire demon immediately reaches up, hands on her shoulders, and exhales. With that breath, the Fade twists, and changes. Isabela steps back, startled, and Fenris draws the sword finally free as they find themselves standing in Hawke’s room. The fire crackles, burns, and the sheets on her bed are messy and pulled back. Instead of the desire demon standing there, something else.

A mockery of Fenris, no white in his eyes, smiling up at Ada. She’s frozen in place, eyes wide, looking helplessly at it. “I’m here,” it says and Fenris hates the way his voice sounds in its mouth, “I stayed,” and Fenris hates those words even more. It steps even closer to Ada, and wherever it touches, armor becomes dust, falls away.

“Ada. I’ve been so foolish. That night – it was more perfect than I could have hoped. I should never have left. I’ll never leave again,” it says, eyes darkly looking up at her, smile softly on not-Fenris’s face.

“Ada,” Fenris cautions. Isabela, meanwhile, is delighted.

“ _That night_?” She says, looking between Ada and Fenris. Clapping a hand over her mouth as she bends over in laughter. “Oh, when we are out of here, I am going to need details.” Fenris casts her a glowering glare as he steps forward. As he does, so does the demon. Closer to Ada, wrapping its arms around her. It guards her jealously, lovingly, glares at the others. Ada is pressing hands against her temples, squeezing her eyes closed. Of all the things to make her falter, of all the things that might tempt her. It’s love. His love. A love that doesn’t belong to this demon.

“Enough,” Anders crackles as he steps forward, wrapping a hand around the demon’s arm. Jealousy and anger, entwined in him, ripping the demon off of her. It snarls anger, but Fenris steps forward, blade bared at its throat. Ada immediately crouches down, takes a shuddering breath with her hands over her mouth. Isabela draws her daggers, and the three of them form a half circle, protecting Ada from the demon who desires her desperately.

The illusion broken, target out of its reach, the desire demon comes back to itself. Hawke’s room turns to ash, fades back into a room in the Gallows. Her armor is whole again, and she is standing tall, her weapon in her hands. Horrified embarrassment is bright red at the back of her neck, beats in the soul of her, but there isn’t time for that. Not right now. The demon screams, and the shades answer. The four of them work without comment, tearing down the enemies sent their way.

Fenris grabs hold of the demons neck, thrusts his sword upward into its chest. _He_ is Fenris. No one is allowed to take that away from him. The demon gurgles, chokes on its death. Slipping from his sword, back into the shadow from whence it came. He steps back, sheaths his sword. Ada has a hand at her temple, rubbing her forehead. “Fenris, I –” she begins, but he shakes his head.

“Later. Let us find Feynriel and get out of here,” he says, going towards the door. A part of him suspects that it was not just Ada the demon was reading. It spoke so clearly his regret, his feeling. It was as though it had pulled the very thoughts from his head. While Ada burns with a wish shown to the rest, Fenris sinks into cowardly shame.


	211. Sacrifices (Zevran x F!Warden, Fenris x F!Hawke, Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: We are required to do sacrifices. It's what we do." Your fav DA pairing. Rip out my heart and then put it back together? 

Mahariel reaches down, picks up the sword. The fire burns at the back of her, and Denerim burns with it. The smoke is in her lungs, in her bones, sweat on her brow and poison in her blood. The archdemon is languishing on broken stone, a falling tower. Every breath bites at her, every muscle aches. Adjusting her grip, knuckles white around the hilt. She holds it tightly as she walks forward. A slow exhale, and she raises the sword above the dragon’s head. A Grey Warden knows her duty. In war, victory.

Hawke feels the staff beginning to give. She blocks the blow, watches it begin to splinter. Drawing the bladed edge against stone, sweeping ice in her wake. Meredith screams backwards, and the ground cracks underneath her as she charges forward once again. Reaching out, the magic booms from Hawke’s fist, but it does nothing to slow Meredith. The staff shatters to pieces, and Hawke is thrown to the ground. Meredith marches forward, raises the sword, and Hawke closes her eyes. All will know of Kirkwall. Of what happened here. In peace, vigilance.

Lavellan watches the eluvian behind him go dark. There is no going back, so he walks forward. Past statues made of silence, Qunari carved in stone. The blood seeps between his fingertips, fade oozes from the anchor. His arm limply hangs, quietly shakes, and as he climbs the steps, he knows there is not much he can do. That’s never stopped him before. The anchor sparks, angers, and he doesn’t know how much more he can take. Still, he does not hesitate. In death, sacrifice.

 

* * *

 

Zevran runs up the stairs, every bit of him burning. All saw the light go up from the top of the tower, watched as the darkspawn began to flee. She did it. The archdemon. Then, the explosion. Dust and smoke swirling at the sudden flood of power that ripped through the streets. Mahariel – she was still up there. His steps slow as he reaches the top. Slowly walking forward, kneeling down beside her. Her eyes are closed as she sits on the ground, leans against the dragon. “ _Amor_ ,” he says, brushing a hand against her cheek. Her eyes open, and she smiles at the sight of him.

Red lyrium meets metal. Fenris blocks Meredith’s blow, drives her back. Turning to Hawke, extending a hand. “I’m here,” he says. She takes it, and he pulls her to her feet. She needs no staff to be dangerous. Standing by his side, and the lightning sparks between her fingertips. A momentarily glance, an agreeing nod. Fenris dashes forward and the lightning arcs behind him. Meredith screams impossibilities as he drives the blade through her chest, as Hawke makes it a killing blow. Side by side, hand in hand, and she rests her head on his shoulder.

Dorian paces by the unlit eluvian. He stops in place when it comes to life once again. Relief breaks on his face as Lavellan slowly steps through. Opening his arms, catching him as he falls forward. Slowly going to his knees, cradling him close. “ _Amatus_ ,” he says, as he brushes stray stands of hair away from his face. “I am so happy to see you.” Lavellan doesn’t miss the way his voice cracks, breaks, and the smile is slow. Reaching upwards with his last good hand, pulling Dorian down to him, ghosting a salty kiss against his lips. 


	212. Winter Homes (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Lay your head in my lap and try to get some rest"--any pairing? ps. Ur stuff is great as always 

All of it makes him uneasy. He wears his grip against his staff as he leans against rock. The quiet gurgle of lava far below, and the warmth of it seeps upwards, fills empty roads. This is the last place he wants to be. He wasn’t made for places such as this. He stands up straight at the sound of shifting rubble, and beside him Oghren snorts awake. He keeps the magic low, at the surface, just under his skin. The hard line of his shoulders slowly eases when he sees a head of golden hair, Leliana soon after him.

“This thaig seems to be clear,” she says.

“For now, at least,” Zevran says, “until the darkspawn decide to come back and kill us all in our sleep, hmm?” Rémi shakes his head.

“Are we sleepin’, or what?” Oghren asks, already laying down his bedroll. Rémi gets to work building the fire from what’s available, lights it with a snap of his fingers. Oghren was asleep within moments of his head hitting the pillow, while Zevran lays down right next to Rémi. He’s still holding his staff, wearing those marks around the wood.

“It is not so bad, truly. Perhaps clean away the cobwebs, put down a few rugs, add an extravagantly large bed,” Zevran raises his eyebrows, “and it will be a very cozy winter get away.” Shoulder against shoulder, and Rémi turns to look at him, a smile on his face.

“Don’t people usually get summer homes?”

“No, no, _amor_ , you see – we will travel during the summer. I know how much you enjoy your Ferelden, but we must go see Antiva. There are many things I wish to show you. Once it becomes unbearably cold, we can simply hide down here,” he says. “No more worrying about losing my poor toes in the snow.” Rémi laughs and Zevran smiles, turning onto his side. He reaches over, gently tugs the staff from his grasp.

He shifts closer, puts an arm under Rémi’s neck. He tugs him tightly, and he has no choice but to put his head on Zevran’s chest, by the crook of his arm. “Lie here, _amor_. Get some rest. I will keep you safe,” Zevran tells him. Realistically, he knows nothing’s changed. But his warmth is somehow different than that of the Roads, and instead of that terrible silence, he can listen to the steady beat of Zevran’s heart. Idle fingers move through his hair, and Zevran plants a kiss against the crown of his head.


	213. Yes, and No (Tamlen x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a friend

“I’m Tamlen,” he says. Little hands, muddy cheeks. “Do you want to be my friend?” He smiles, and he’s missing one of his front teeth, holds out a dandelion that he’s picked from the ground. Sandy blond locks of hair fall around his face, wild and untamed.

“Yes,” Mahariel says as she reaches out and takes the dandelion that he offers. Somehow his grin grows wider, toothier, and he gives a heartily pleased huff.

 

“Look,” he says, holding it out to her, “did you want to try?”

“Yes,” she says, taking the bow. Running a touch over the wood, fingertips against the line of the string. Holding it up properly, drawing it back. Tamlen laughs at the awkwardness of it all, moves to stand behind her. His chest against her back, his hands over hers.

“Like this,” he says, his voice so near to her, breath warm against her ear. Together they notch back the string, let some imaginary arrow fly.

 

He traces the lines of his _vallaslin_. “We’re adults now,” he says. Sitting on the ground, back leaning against the tree, while she stands nearer to the stream. Crossing her arms, raising her eyebrows as she looks at him.

“No amount of _vallaslin_ can make you an adult,” she tells him. Some begrudging grin as Tamlen rips out a handful of grass to throw at her. She laughs as those green blades come woefully short of finding her.

“All I’m saying is that we can do more now,” he says, his eyes drifting away from her, hands still plucking at grass. “We’ll have actual, real responsibilities. I know I’ll be one of the clan’s best hunters. I’d be – well, I’d be a good match. For a bond. Did – did you, maybe, ever, want to be bonded?” Slowly, his gaze finds hers once again.

“Yes,” she says, “one day.” A smile, the red that scorches the tips of his ears.

 

“This must be the cave,” he says, “I don’t recall seeing this before. We should go inside, see if there’s any more of those carvings.”

“Yes,” she says, already starting to walk down, “and I’ll bring the Keeper everything we find and take all the credit.” Tamlen laughs as he races down after her.

“Maybe we’ll find something _real_. A true relic,” he says, awe in the tone of his voice. Still wide-eyed wonder as he looks at her, and she smiles as he reaches out, squeezes her hand lightly.

 

“I always loved you,” Tamlen says. He holds himself so roughly, arms clasped around himself, fingers digging into bruised flesh. Limping forward, jarring movements, some tightly wound cage, and he looks up at her. “Please, _vhenan_ , do this for me.” Voice ragged with the venom of darkspawn, black veins twisting under his skin. She draws the knife from her belt. She’s never been able to refuse him. He leans against her, and she holds him one last time.

 

“I should have said no,” Mahariel says, “all those times, I should have said no.” It looks exactly like him. Some ghostly image, a recreation pulled from her memories. Tamlen, made of sacred ashes, smiles sadly.

“I’m so glad you said yes. It’s too late to go back. Live well, _vhenan_ ,” Tamen tells her. His voice is a tender echo, a distant thing. He reaches up, as if to touch her cheek, but his hand passes through her, and he slowly fades from sight.


	214. Songs (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hey Lisa! 

“If you will excuse me, my lord,” Noya says, giving a short nod of her head. It always surprises the guards nearby, and perhaps even Teagan himself, to see a Dalish speak to him so formally. Alistair takes the space she once occupied, close to his sort-of uncle. They lean over the map together, chart the path they will take to Denerim. From where he sits, that chair in the back of the room, Zevran watches her go. Braids circled at the back of her head, and a single strand strays from those tightly wound knots. No one notices him follow her.  

She paces in the study, and Zevran closes the door behind him. Although she doesn’t look at him, he knows that she was fully aware of his haunting her steps. “Does the idea of the Sacred Ashes displease you that much Warden?” She gives an exasperated sigh. He pulls out the chair from behind the desk, lounges in it with ease.

“It’s not the Sacred Ashes that – displease me. It is the fact that we must go to Denerim, find this Genitivi and then go to the location he _thinks_ they might be. If they’re not there, then what? If they are, and they do not cure the Arl, then what will we do? Loghain allows the Westfolds to burn, sacrificing cities and people in his greed for a crown,” she says, kneading her knuckles against the table.

“What good will the throne be when there’s nothing left to rule?” She shakes her head. “All of this politics is folly. The fact we even need the Arl frustrates me. It makes me sick to think of the time we’re wasting,” she says. She makes no outward show of this. Her tender heart, guarded by steel. It slips out, in speaking concern for the common folk, in the steps she’s taken to ensure her companions are comfortable.

She knows Leliana looks over her shoulder. For what, she does not yet know, but Noya has begun to walk by her side, if not just slightly behind. A wordless declaration of protection. In conversations, she doesn’t allow any to belittle Alistair. He makes jokes, and she knows this doesn’t make him a fool. She is quick to defend Sten’s presence – and perhaps, defend those who question it from Sten. Late nights spent talking with Wynne, giving her company. Even Morrigan doesn’t escape her attentions, and Zevran didn’t miss the small smile the witch gave her when Noya put a gentle hand at her back.  

And for him?

She does not surprise him. She makes her presence known. She asks consent to touch, for company. If there is something he doesn’t wish to speak of, then she doesn’t press. She gives him a permission, a freedom that no one else has given him before. He pledged himself to her service, but more often than not, it felt as though she was in his. In all of theirs.

He sees it clearly, her annoyance, irritation. She’s always been best set loose towards a task, and she would beat down all that in her way, but this is no creature, person, something she can fight. Easy to see why she removed herself from the planning. An angered bull without direction is no help at all. Zevran reaches down, picks up the lute by the desk. She pauses in rubbing her brows to give him a flat stare, “what are you doing?” A finger across the strings, and he can tell it hasn’t been played in an age. Still, it’s serviceable.

“In the cities of Antiva,” he says as he begins to play, “there are large fields of grapes, grown for wine. When it comes time for harvest, many of the vineyards would hire musicians. The songs can be heard all through the streets.” Nimble and lithe fingers, a tune long memorized, soft music that he joins with his own humming. The two melodies mix together in harmony, a joyful distraction. She kneels down slowly, opposite that desk, her arms crossed and chin resting on her wrists. She watches him play, listens without interruption. She closes her eyes, and after a few moments, begins to smile.

“Thank you,” she says when he finishes. Grey eyes cool and calm, and the music had banished the angry red that had begun to color the tips of her ears.

“You are very welcome,” Zevran says with a wide grin.

“The songs of my clan are quite different.” He sets the lute down, surprised to hear her speak of her clan at all. He can’t think of any time she’d given any willing detail about herself. “They’re mostly hymns, lullabies. They all sound so sad.” She closes her eyes again, breathes in deep. “ _Irassal ma ghilas, ma garas mir renan. Ara ma’athalan vhenas,_ ” a whispered thing, uncertain and cracked in her voice, and she opens her eyes.

“What does it mean?” he asks.

“Wherever you go,” she says, “follow my voice, and I will call you home.”


	215. Anyone (Zevran x F!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Alternatively, what about ZevWarden with Zev as the submissive?

If it were anyone else.

She sits on top of him, straddles him. Her thighs around his hips, her weight settled gently. Her fingers walk the bone of his chest, his ribs, and flutter over the tattoos. She has tied his wrists already, tightly so, up above his head. He struggles, but they do not give. Caught. Trapped.

If it were anyone else.

She does not take her eyes from his flesh. A hunter, examining prey. Her hair spills around her, long, dark and curling, free now from the braids she normally keeps them in. Leaning down, forward, putting her hand over his eyes. Teeth at his earlobes, the edge of his jaw, a kiss that tracks to his mouth. Possessive. Claiming.

If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t let them.

Noya raises her hand only slightly, her forehead against his. She cups his face in her hands, kisses him deeply, as though dying of thirst for him. “Zevran,” she says, and his name has always sounded best in her mouth, on her tongue. She puts that name in him, and he accepts it freely, and he longs to reach out and touch, but she has marked that forbidden. She is his, and he is equal parts hers.

Cicadas buzz in the tall grass outside their room, and the heat of Antiva is a thick blanket across them. Sweat beads her back, against his chest. Pulling back, breaking the line of spit between them, and that glance? A heat all their own. The blush in her cheeks, the flush in her chest, one he mirrors. Her thumb against his lips, in his mouth, fingers against his jaw. She presses the base of her thumb against his bottom teeth, opens his mouth for her.

The day has been made of lazy teasing. Light touches, naked bodies. It grows painful now, for them both. She leans back, draws herself up. Back straight, fingertips pressed against his chest for balance. He knows the lines of her. Full breasts, darker nipples. The stretch marks at the sides of them, the scar on her left ribs. A blow that was too close for them both. There’s strength in her belly, the trained discipline of spear and shield. Arms strong and muscled, thighs much the same. She could devour him with ease, and Zevran licks his lips.

She turns, where she straddles him, knees changing sides. Turning her back to him, the curve of her spine, and the swell of her ass. A chill as he realizes what she’s doing. She positions herself neatly, and his wrists strain at their bonds. Her cunt is _perfect_. Tantalizing, just above him, achingly ripe from the days teasing. A jolt, as her hand wraps around the base of his cock, the first kiss against him. Tongue swirling around the head of him, tasting the salt of him. A stuttered groan in his throat as she swallows him completely, eyes fluttering closed, head tipped back. “ _Tu serás mi muerte_ ,” he says in a low growl.

It only encourages her to take him further, stroke him harder. Her mouth is relentless, and she holds his hip with one hand – down, as Zevran’s unable to stop the involuntary thrust upwards, the need to bury his cock in wet warmth. A stirring of glee, when she lowers herself, her cunt against his mouth. He thinks she might feel his smile in it, the happy grin as he tastes her. A deep pleasure stirs at him when he feels her movements stutter as he eats at her, fucks her cunt with his tongue.

He’s almost disappointed when she pulls away, when she turns back to face him. A smile on her face, as she wipes the corner of his mouth. Bending down to kiss him, and he feels her feet against his legs, and knows where she adjusts herself. That hand, over his eyes again. The other, reaching between them, holding him steady. He wants to see Noya, the face she’s making, to know the expression that goes with the groan, the sound of which somehow makes him harder than he already is. She starts slow. He can feel her breasts moving against him, and once again he twists at the bonds.

He wants to run his hands along the curve of her, to feel her breasts in his palm. This is torture of the highest kind. She moves without mercy, sets a grueling pace. He bends his legs, knees up, thrusts upward to meet her. Her hair is like a veil around them, her other hand pressed into the pillow to hold herself upwards. Only then does she move her hand, opening his eyes to see her above him. “I want to watch you cum, Arainai,” she says. He nearly comes undone, just at that, and she knows it. What a self-satisfied smirk.

“Let me touch you,” he begs. She shakes her head. Leaning back, palms pressed against his chest. Her arms press her breasts together, bouncing with each thrust. Her touch travels over him. His ribs, his stomach. Over his arms, his shoulders, around his collar bone. At the goblet of his throat, a hand around his neck. At his jaw, holding his face. Leaning over him, watching him closely.

“Look at me,” she says, and it’s impossible to look anywhere else. “Cum.” A difficult task, to keep his eyes open. A strangled noise in his throat, some look of desperation. Breathing heavily, his lips parted, mouth open. Deep crimson at his cheeks, and Noya never looks away. He spills himself utterly, completely, hopelessly at her command. Her movements slow, still, and come to a rest. She presses a kiss to his forehead, the tip of his nose, as she busies her hands with untying his wrists. He instantly throws his arms around her, flips her over on the bed.

Hair splayed over the pillows, and she’s looking up at him smugly still. “You are a torture, _mi amor_ ,” he tells her, and with a smirk of his own, kisses her.


	216. Choices (Zevran, Alistair, Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: If you're still taking prompts, this is one I've always wanted to see: I hated how Alistair attacked my f!Mahariel (my pragmatic, but not cold, warden) because she sacrificed Isolde to save Connor. I headcannon that Zev was pissed to see her so upset after so he confronted Alistair privately to put him in his place(as the senior warden did not want to lead or make the tough calls, but then would shame her for what she truly thought was the best option available). Would you want to take this on?

He sits beside him. Alistair instantly sits up straighter, looks at him, looks back at the campfire. The others are all by their own tents, or inside them, paying no mind to the two still awake. Zevran seems unaware of his discomfort of sitting so close, shoulder pressing against shoulder. He has the whetstone in his hands, smiling as he begins to sharpen one of his daggers. “Redcliffe was your home, hmm?” A statement, disguised as a question, that first metal slide against the stone. “Are you not pleased, then, that it is safe?”

Alistair’s expression instantly hardens. “So you’re here to defend murdering Isolde,” he says. Zevran clicks his tongue a few times, a light sound of disagreement.

“You are the senior Warden, yes?” Alistair’s hands ball into fists.

“Yes,” he says.

“And you did not make the decision. Our Warden did,” Zevran says, his eyes briefly flicking away from the dagger, to Alistair, “it was an impossible choice, one that you did not want to make, and yet you insist on arguing.”

“We should have gone to the Circle –”

“You think there was that much time?” The hard slice of the dagger, glinting in the firelight.

“We should have _tried_ ,” Alistair insists.  

“Connor would have still been possessed while we were gone. How long, do you think, is it to travel to the tower and return? Do you think there would have been a Redcliffe to return to?” Zevran asks him.

“You don’t know –”

“And neither do you! You could not lead. You gave that responsibility to her and then you punish her for it,” Zevran tells him. Throwing the whetstone to the side, burying the dagger into the bark between them. “Do not take out your weakness on her.” Fury on Alistair’s face, one that begins to soften, fade into something like shame. Resting an elbow on his knee, rubbing his face. Zevran wedges the dagger free from the wood.

“I know,” Alistair says, “I know.” Pulling his hand down his face, world weary, dark circles under his eyes. He looks past Zevran, in the direction of her tent. Lowering his head, looking at the space between his feet.

“An apology would suit you both,” Zevran says as he sheathes the dagger, stands, and leaves him.


	217. Statues (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: hello queen. "are you going to cry or fight?!" please, any pairing!!

“Alistair,” she says. Stretching out over him, forcing his hands above his head. Her own hands around his wrists, brushing nose against nose. “One more fight.” All of it has been leading to this.

“Do you think they’ll make statues of us?” He asks. Her reply is laughter, bright eyed and dimpled cheeks. He smiles up at her, easily shakes free of her hold. Reaching up, brushing hair behind her ear.

“You’ll be the King,” she says, “You could have a statue made if you wanted.” He crinkles his nose.

“Awfully tacky to have a statue built for myself,” he tells her. A smile as her face dips, arranging herself to drape arms over his chest, rest her chin on the back of her hands. Alistair crosses his arms behind his head, looks down at her. “I’ll build one for you.”

“Isn’t it also tacky for the King to build a statue for his Queen?” She says. A mocking gasp of horror.

“You would call the material representation of love _tacky_?” A hard exhale from him as her hands press into against his chest, as she sits up to straddle him.

“We still have to win the battle. Pointless talk if we lose,” she says. Hands on her thighs, her hips, traveling upwards, pulling her down to him. Fingers at the soft wisps of hair at the nape of her neck, her hands against the pillow beside his head.

“We’re not going to lose,” he tells her, “we’re going to be heroes.”

“What heroes can you think of that have happy endings?” She asks him.

“Us,” he says simply. She rolls her eyes, shakes her head and gives him a hopeless smirk. Wrapping arms around her, flipping them over completely, trapping her beneath him. “We’re going to fight, we’re going to win, and we’ll be heroes. Even if we don’t have statues.”

“Whatever will I do without my statue?”

“Don’t cry,” he says, leaning down to pepper her cheek with kisses, reveling in her laughter.

Alistair looks up at burning Denerim, the Archdemon that circles the tower, and realizes how foolish they both were. Riordan has fallen. Across the battlefield, that broken street, they look at each other. Breathing heavy, blood on her face, and he wonders if it’s possible to reach that happy ending. He laments, and knows they should have stayed in that bed.


	218. Sacrifices (Cassandra x F!inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: we are required to do sacrifices. it’s what we do. ” and/or ❛❛ Shh, shh. It’s okay. You’re alright. You’re safe now. ❜❜ Cassandra x F!Inquisitor. Thank you!!! Give me all the angst, please!

Cassandra paces outside the eluvian. “Josephine needs you here,” the Inquisitor had said, “She needs support against the Council.” A thought: _you need me more_. A thought: _I know about the anchor_. A thought: _don’t leave me behind_. A thought: _let me protect you_. All the things Cassandra wishes she had said. The words had died on her tongue, after one look at the Inquisitor’s face. She had held her hands, and now those hands are clasped behind her back, squeezing them together tightly. The knot at her brows, wearing a path into marble floors. They’ve been gone all night.

They had tried to find the Warden, and they had disappeared.

They had tried to find Hawke, and they had been hidden.

They had been given her, instead, and Cassandra knows – from the moment the Exalted Council was called. She should have hidden her. She should have told the world she had disappeared. It was a sacrifice to go, and Cassandra thought she knew which sacrifice she was making. No amount of duty was worth this. They had been gone all night, and the sun only now begins to rise. She hasn’t slept. She still paces. It’s Sera that comes through first. Blood soaked and breathing ragged, her broken bow in her hands. Cassandra stops immediately.

Vivienne, humming with constant magic. Blackwall, half carrying, half dragging the Inquisitor with him. The eluvian goes dark. Cassandra immediately reaches out, takes her from Blackwall. Sinking to the floor as Sera runs to get help, cradling her in her arms. Brushing back sweat soaked wisps of hair, wiping at the blood on her cheek. She’s shivering with cold, burning up at the touch. Wide eyed, and Cassandra can see the ruin that was once her arm. The Inquisitor struggles to open her eyes.

“Cass,” broken, and hoarse.

“Shh,” she says, “shh. It’s okay.” Trying to smile, for her sake, even though the tears drop against her cheeks. “It’s okay. You’re alright.” She holds her tightly, and she is so limp, so weak. “You’re safe now.” Pulling her close, mumbling the words against her forehead. Squeezing her eyes closed as she rocks back and forth, the Inquisitor in her arms. They should have disappeared. They should have hidden, together. Cassandra should have kept her safe.


	219. Names (Zevran, Isabela)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: This is by far the most stupid plan you’ve ever created. Of course I’m in.” for younger Zevran

She is a fledgling. She takes daring steps, but those steps have the edge of hesitance. She is testing a barrier she doesn’t know if she should cross. He steps across the floor towards her, separates her from her current partner easily. A hand around her waist, taking the other, and he spins them into the dance. “I have not seen you here before,” he says, and behind the mask styled like a fox, golden brown eyes blink. She follows his steps with ease, graceful and balanced.

“I thought I’d try something new,” she says. Tightening his grip around her waist, pulling her close. They are but a hair-breadth away, her lips close to his – before he steps back, spins her round, and pulls her back in.

“How are you enjoying your ‘something new’?”

“Better now,” she says breathlessly. “My name is Naishe.”

“And I,” he says with a flourish and a bow, raising her hand to his lips, “am Zevran.”

 

* * *

 

“He’s a brute,” she says as they lounge together. They share a box of chocolates between them. Shared interests, a shared bed, has made them fast friends over the past few weeks. An elbow on the back of the couch, legs crossed, but her gown is tantalizingly loose, expression bitter as she takes another chocolate. “I’ve started carrying a knife.” Zevran raises his eyebrows.

“Show me,” he says. Naishe pulls the knife from the hidden corner of the couch, unsheathing it, holding in her hand, extending it with the metal pointed to his neck.

“You hold it as though you are an infant,” he says, unconcerned and highly amused. “This will not do. I will teach you.”

Zevran never sees Luis, or at the least, Luis never sees him. He slips in and out through windows, backdoors, meets Naishe at parties and balls. Such a curious, wild, thing, he introduces her to all the best things he knows of Antiva. Time is easily passed in her presence. She asks how he makes his coin, he spins a tale.

He never intends to tell her. What would be the point? That is until – idle gossip, spreading through circles that reach even his. A young wife, out of control. An aging husband, seeking to replace her. She would be easily forgotten, if done away with in the right manner. Zevran breaks into her room that very night, shakes Naishe awake. She turns over in the bed, the heavy blanket of sleep still over her. “Luis intends to kill you,” he tells her. She instantly sits up, wide eyed. “So we must kill him first. Hire me.”

“What?” Naishe asks.

“I am a Crow. Hire me.” He drops a bag filled with coin onto her lap. “I will give you an address. You will speak to a man called Mateo. You will tell him you have a position that needs filled by Arainai, under the care of Luis.” A dark cloud settles over her brows.

“I can kill him myself,” she hisses.

“This, you must not do. If he meets his end from a Crow, then you will inherit his house, his gold, his ship. Sail away from here Naishe, far away. You will inherit his fortune, but it will not save you from rumor. His business associates might seek revenge upon you,” Zevran tells her. Her fist is wound in the blanket, the other gripping the knife under her pillow. He crawls onto the bed, takes her face in his hands.

“Be rid of this place. Your past. You are better off without it,” he tells her. “Will you hire me?” Staring at him for a moment, a hard stare which slowly softens.

“This is a stupid plan. I can do it, but… yes,” she says. Zevran instantly breaks into a wild smile.

“Good. When it is done, and you sail, you should change your name. Write me a letter when you do, hmm? I would like to know that you are well,” he says, reaching into his bag again. “In case we do not speak again, I have a gift.” He lays two very fine daggers beside her. She stares at it for a moment, before leaning over and rifling through her drawers. In his palms, she drops an ornate key, one which will open all the doors in the house.

 

* * *

 

 

Three weeks later, Zevran receives a letter. Scented with sea salt, sprayed with her perfume. Signed at the bottom, _Isabela_. 


	220. Rescue Me (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: You said what to your teacher?” I can see Hawke being a snarky motherfucker. F!Hawke and Fenris

Hawke lies on the floor, hands linked over her belly. Thoughtfully examining the ceiling, each speckle and crack, trying to ignore his muffled chuckling. “You said what to Meredith?” he asks between his fingers. Sitting on the bench, an elbow on his knee, and his hand over his mouth.

“I told her it looks stupid and that if she wanted a statue of herself, she should’ve just done it. She didn’t have to go through the trouble of pretending it was me,” she says. The laughter snorts through, free and clear.

“What did she say?” Hawke pushes herself up, looks at him.

“Not a word. Went as red as a tomato though,” she says as she crosses her legs, wraps hands around her ankles. “I mean – I’m not wrong! It’s wearing a helmet, I’ve never worn a helmet a day in my life. A flaming sword! I’m a mage! It couldn’t be more bloody obvious she made the thing because she had to, but damn if she was actually going let an apostate have an accurate statue. Champion of Kirkwall, my left foot.”

“One day she’s going to punch you in the mouth,” Fenris tells her, trying and failing to hide the wide smile spread across his face.

“I’d like to see her try. I’ll turn _her_ into a statue if she does. Make it the most lifelike thing you’ve ever seen,” Hawke grumbles.

“Please be careful,” he says.

“I’m not doing anything,” she says, feigning shock, pressing a hand against her chest. “If something happens, it’ll be Meredith’s own fault and you know it.”

“Still,” he tells her with a chuckle, “I would rather not have to rescue you from the Gallows.” Hawke grins.

“At least you’re willing to rescue me,” she says. Fenris gives her shoulder a playful push, and she throws herself back, laughs as she lays herself out on the floor.


	221. Tasting (Fenris x M!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: this food looks great but there's something more delicious I'd like to eat right now. Fenhawke with male hawke please and thank you. :)

It had begun on the way back from the market. Grey clouds had gathered quickly, and the thunder came soon after. Rain on its booming heels, pouring down without mercy. They had taken shelter under the lip of a nearby home, backs pressed against the wall. The bag of food in Hawke’s hand, the other tangled in his. Fenris looks up at him. Hawke is slowly leaning out, looking at the clouds, and seeing a sky that only grows darker. Even in the short time they were in the thick of it, it was still enough to soak them. Water drips from Hawke’s hair, twists down his temple, gets lost in the stubble of his beard.

“What do you think?” Hawke asks as he leans back, looks at Fenris, “should we make a run for it?” A carefree smile, and it’s this that catches him off-guard. Without a word, Fenris stands on his toes, wraps a fist in the front of Hawke’s shirt. Pulling him down, planting the kiss against his lips. Hawke’s expression instantly sobers, heats to a different quality. Although Fenris is back on the flat of his feet, Hawke is leaning down once again. He kisses him the same way each and every time. As though he is dying without it. As though Fenris is the only person he needs. As though, at that very moment, Fenris is the most important thing in the world. Little does he know that Hawke feels that way all the time.

Hawke’s beard is scratchy at his palm, but he doesn’t mind. He carries a heat all his own, a signature warmth, some of which he puts inside Fenris with a single word. A kiss is more than enough to stoke the coals of Fenris’s chest, send that warmth to even the tips of his fingers. “Fenris,” he says, murmured low against his lips. A hunger, in his eyes, and Fenris matches that hunger with a lick of his lips.

“Yes,” Fenris tells him, “we should run for it.” He’s off before the words have even passed his lips. His hand shakes free of Hawke’s, sprinting through the streets. A bark of laughter, and then, the heavy sound of footsteps behind him. Fenris has never minded the rain. Cool water on his face, down his back. The streets emptied because of it, and they are alone. He slows his pace, not just for Hawke’s sake. But to feel it – the sweeping wind, the static of lightning in the air. The crack, the arc of light, the drums that follow. Hawke, beside him, smiling, turning his face up to it, and enjoying it just as much. Fenris has always cherished the freedom of being alone. Now he finds it in Hawke’s presence as well.

At the door of the estate, Hawke fumbles with the key. The bag awkward in his other hand, Fenris’s fingertips against his arm. Travelling lightly up and down, against his skin, catching those droplets of water, casting them elsewhere. He watches gooseflesh follow his touch. A bursting sigh of relief as the door opens, as Hawke puts an arm around him and guides him inside. The door closes heavy, and the bag drops soon after. His hands are preoccupied with far better things, now. Hawke’s hands are large and rough, but always gentle.

A hand against his jaw, fingertips at the crook of it, a thumb brushing over cheekbones. The other holding steady Fenris’s hip, as Hawke kisses his deeply, breathes him in. Fenris reciprocates wholly, hard fists in Hawke’s shirt, an arm thrown around his shoulders. “We should,” breathily spoken between a barrage of kisses, “put the food,” Hawke’s eyes are closed, invading his mouth with his tongue, “away.” But Fenris only presses himself against Hawke even harder. His back finds a wall, Hawke’s leg between his. A subtle pressure against the bulge of his pants, and a hand is easily slipped under a wet tunic.

Fenris looks at him fiercely as he raises his arms, allows Hawke to tug the shirt off of him, throw it to the side in a heap. Wet skin prickles against cold air, but Hawke’s hands are on him, warming him, Hawke’s mouth slipping from his mouth and against the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck. Fenris’s hands squeeze on Hawke’s arms, pushing him back. The other side of the foyer, the other wall, and Fenris half tears at the lacings of Hawke’s tunic, opening it. Running fingers over his chest, the damp hair there, pulling his shirt from his shoulders.

It drops to the floor behind him, and Fenris bares teeth against his neck. A bite, hard enough to mark, a hungry kiss that follows. Hawke’s hand splays against the small of his back, tugs him closer. They wage a small war against each other, pushing and pulling, and Fenris allows Hawke to win. A hand underneath his thigh, pulling Fenris upwards into his arms. Hawke goes to his knees, lies Fenris gently back against the floor. That large hand of his over Fenris’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of it, the quickened beat of his heart.

His kisses grow sloppy, leaning over Fenris like this. Especially when legs wrap around his waist, hands move between them. Finding the edge of Hawke’s trousers, pulling the knot undone. At the same time, he is working the buttons of his leggings, pulling them both free. Hawke’s cock is hard, thick, pulses against his hand. Hawke’s lowers himself, just so, enough for Fenris to press their cocks together, wrap hands around them both.

Hawke thrusts forward slowly, moving his hips just so, as Fenris strokes them both together. “Fen,” murmured darkly, eyes squeezed closed and knotted brows, and lips find lips once again. A searching tongue, mixing taste. Hawke shivers with some unseen cold, leans back. Moving Fenris’s hands away as he finds the edge of his leggings. With one swift pull, Hawke pulls them off. Immediately bending over once again, hands on Fenris’s hips, settling himself between his legs. He lets one rest over Hawke’s shoulder, shudders as Hawke takes him into his mouth.

Head tipped back, wet white hair against stone. Fenris’s eyes flutter, as he threads fingers through Hawke’s hair. His other arm bent beside him, turning his head slightly, knuckles pressed against his mouth. Hawke is messy with this, enthusiastic. Still holding his hips, arms curled under his legs. A hand moves flat against Fenris’s stomach as Hawke takes him deeper. Tongue put to good use, swirling around the head of him, even lower.

Hawke wraps a hand around the base of him, and strokes him in what space there is left. He groans at that first taste of salt, and Fenris’s hand squeezes in his hair at the rumble of his throat against his cock. Heels press into his back, but Hawke doesn’t mind. Pleased with the way Fenris squirms underneath his ministrations. That signature warmth again, his tongue pressing at all the right spots. Fenris gives a groan of his own, muffled against his hand. Hawke’s cheeks are hollowed, and he holds him tightly.

His hips begin to move of their own accord, upwards, fucking into Hawke’s mouth. Back arching, hips hitching forward, fingernails biting into clenched fists. The moan is drawn from him, mouth gasping, stars bursting behind closed eyelids. Hawke holds him gently as Fenris spills his seed inside his mouth, rides out his orgasm. Hawke swallows, and plants a line of kisses against the v of his hips. Slowly moving over him, twisting a lock of wet hair between his fingers, a kiss at the goblet of his throat.

“Perhaps,” Fenris says, still breathless, “we should go to the bed.” He feels Hawke grin, and his own smile soon follows.  


	222. Hawke (Carver, F!Hawke, Varric, Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Oh my god, are you taking prompts right now? If you are, could you explore some thoughts or directions having Carver or Bethany as The Warden in Here Lies the Abyss? I saw that thread of you and Pegaeae talking about it/drabbing/arting about it and I need the feels, if you are into that idea!

They had called him Hawke, then.

If he had stayed, things would have been different. He remembers the mud of it. The rain that bounced off armor, pooled beneath their feet. The stories never speak of it – the piss of it, the stench and the mess of battle. The chaos, the confusion, and his boots in that mud. Reflecting something darker, the blood of the bodies that remained where they had fallen. He had gone from one Darkspawn to the next. If he had only killed enough, if it had only been enough, he might have saved Lothering. They had pulled him from the battlefield. Five of them calling him Hawke, dragging him back, into the retreat. If he had stayed, he could have killed more. Things would have been different.

They call him Carver, here.

The name, the title, of Hawke belongs to someone else. He had lost it the moment they lost Ostagar. The real Hawke spreads her wings, frees them from Lothering’s grasp. He fights in her shadow, as they carve a path through the Horde. He thinks Bethany might have called his name, but as they take ship to Kirkwall, he can’t remember the sound of her voice. They never had much, but now they have nothing. He expects they might make a name for themselves, together. Kirkwall calls her Hawke. They call him Carver. Until they call him Warden.

The armor suits him. He is his own, with it. He finds purpose in a cause that doesn’t belong to him, in the comradery of shared heraldry. For a time, he can’t remember that he ever wanted to be anything but this. When he hears it, when the rest of them start to hear it, there’s only one person he can think to turn to. The one person he’s always turned to. Hawke finds him Ferelden, a home that they had both left, and pledges herself to him, to this, to all of it and everything, as always. She is Hawke, after all. He should have known. He should never have gone to her.

“The Wardens caused this mess, a Warden should fix it,” Carver says. “I’ll keep the beast busy. Get the Inquisitor out of here!” Hawke strides forward, a hand wrapping around his arm.

“No,” she says. Turning to face the Inquisitor fiercely, “take him and go!” Eyes turning to the people beside them, to Varric. “I can’t lose anyone else.” Varric reaches out reluctantly, takes hold of Carver. The Inquisitor does the same.

“And I can?” He shouts it, as Hawke turns her back to him, faces the demon. “We’ve lost the same people! Don’t do this!”

If he had stayed, things would have been different. He remembers the taste of it. The acrid magic that hung in the air, the fog that swirled at their feet. The dreams never do it justice – the horror of it, the strangeness and the beauty. The chaos, the confusion, and the taste on his tongue. It prickled in his skin, crawled in his veins and left a spark in his spine. He had gone from one demon to the next. If he had only killed enough, if it had only been enough, he might have saved her. They had pulled him from the Fade. Calling him Carver, dragging him back, into the rift. If he had stayed, he could have killed it. Things would have been different.

He’ll be called Hawke, now. He wishes he were more worthy of the name.


	223. Manners (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "learn your fucking place! ” - Idk, but mahanon and some prissy noble(s) came to mind.

They speak as though he isn’t standing but two feet from them. He leans against the bannister, the drink in his hands, bare feet against stone. Hair braided and wrapped, curled and pulled, _vallaslin_ on full display. He stands different from the Inquisition. There is evidence of the uniform in what he wears, yes, but more than that it is a gown of the Dalish. He thought it might be fitting, considering they drank and danced over the grave of an elven city. He reminds them, and so they speak. _Savage_ , they say. _Knife-ear_ , they call him. _Rabbit_ , they tease.

He rolls his head with ease, the simmering smile curling at the edge of his lips. Letting his glass rest on the flat of the bannister, tapping his fingers against the white marble of it as he slowly makes his way over to the gossiping nobles. They stiffen at his closeness, and although he bears no weapons, they huddle together to find some safety in numbers. “Perhaps you should mind your manners and learn your fucking place,” he says sweetly, “because that’s no way to speak about your betters.”

Behind them, Josephine’s mouth drops open. Beside her, Dorian breaks into a wide grin. They shuffle away with some mild grumbling, leaving the path clear for Josephine to march over to him. “Those were representative of the duchy of Val Falaise! Mahanon, really,” she says, starting with anger and ending on a sigh. Dorian slowly makes his way over to them, finishing off the rest of the wine in his glass.

“I thought what you said was marvelous,” he says. Josephine shoots him a glare.

“You would. You’re not the one who will have to send the letter of apology!”

“Sorry Josie,” Mahanon says, “but they’ve been going all night.” The dark clouds on her brow part, stiff shoulders ease as she reaches out, puts a hand on his arm.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll see if I can do something about it,” she says softly, before turning and disappearing into the crowd. Dorian snatches two fresh glasses from a passing servant, replacing his empty one. With a smile, he gives one to Mahanon.

“Someone needed to put them in their place,” Dorian says, “and everyone else is too scared to do it. I would have paid a great deal to see their faces, and not those ridiculous masks.” Mahanon chuckles softly as he leans against him, smiling as he rests his head against his temple.

“You’ll just have to settle with seeing my face,” he says.

“I can live with that,” Dorian tells him as he turns towards him, share a small kiss. Mahanon directs his middle finger in the direction of the soft gasp he hears, and kisses him harder.


	224. Freedom (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "this is how i lead" for zevwarden or fenhawke?

There’s a bird sitting on his chest. Something of dark wings, hunting talons. A great predator, and him, her prey. She rises slowly, over him. A foot on one side of him, and the other at the other. Standing at full height, staring down at him, the spear in her hands and metal at his throat. She had batted him to the ground with ease, a solid charge with her shield. He shakes his head, blinks again, and no, it is real, all of it. “I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven’t killed me yet,” he says.

“I’m still making up my mind,” she says.

“Perhaps I can help you with that?” He smiles. She doesn’t smile back. “Mhmm, if you have kept me alive in order to ask me questions, then let me save you a little time and get right to the point. My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens.” She rolls the spear in her hands, presses the tip just a little harder against his neck. “Which I have failed at, sadly.”

“Sadly,” she echoes without expression.

“Yes! Getting captured by a target does put a small damper in one’s budding assassin career, no?”

“Who hired you?”

“A rather sour looking fellow in the capital. Loghain, I believe his name was?” Zevran tells her. “He paid quite a great deal to have you killed. What a threat to his power you must be, yes?” She steps back, stands in line with the others.

“Do you intend on finishing your contract?”

“The coin paid goes to the Crows and not to me,” he says, “The matter of what happens with the contract is between Loghain and the Crows. And now… between us?” She bends down, level with him, with that spear still turning dangerously in her hands.

“I have failed to kill you, and so, my life is forfeit. If you do not kill me, the Crows will,” Zevran tells her, “but perhaps I could be of use to you? Besides this one small blunder I am a considerably accomplished assassin. I know of the little quest you’re on and you need all the help you can get, yes?” He doesn’t expect it to work. He doesn’t expect any more chit chat from her, actually, but she huffs laughter.

“Little quest.” Another small echo of his words. “And should I expect a knife in the back while I sleep?”

“I happen to be a very loyal person! Up until they ask me to die for a slight mistake. The Crows bought me, you know, when I was very young. I had no choice in doing their bidding,” he protests.

“Then you’ll come with us,” she says as she stands. Planting her staff in the ground, extending her hand to him.

“Truly?” He asks. A nod, and he takes her hand. With ease, she pulls him to his feet. “I did not expect –”

“This is how I lead,” she says, “I don’t turn down help when it’s offered. Don’t stab me and I don’t stab you.” He hasn’t let go of her hand yet. They stand at the same height, and he can look nowhere but at her. “My name is Noya.”

“I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation… this I swear,” he says instantly, without hesitation.

“You’re your own man, Zevran,” she says as her touch recedes from him, “choose to help us, or not. I won’t deny someone their freedom.”


	225. Book Club (Cullen x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hi there! I adore your writing. I would like to prompt you with this fairly vague idea; Cullen goes to his best friend, Cassandra, for advice. He's falling hard for (male) Trevelyan, but doesn't know what to do - Trevelyan isn't an easy man to read. Basically I'm a sucker for Cullen/Cassandra friendship. Small bribes sent ;)

A thrust forward, and there, the slight twinge in her arm from that angle. Cassandra rolls her shoulders, closes her eyes, and lets her body relax. Limbs loose, hand around the hilt, head tilted back. The sun shines down warm, the cool mountain breeze, and she tells herself to go see a healer about the arm later. For now, she hears footsteps, opens her eyes, and turns to face him.

“I need to borrow a book,” Cullen says, rubbing the back of his neck. She raises her eyebrows.

“So why are you here and not at the library?” she asks. The blush starts at his neck, creeps upwards, colors in his cheeks.

“It isn’t – academic,” he sighs, dropping his hand to his side. Cassandra leans her sword against the training dummy, crosses her arms. Cullen steps forward, leans closer. “The _literature_.” Whispered words, a paranoid turn of his head, checking to see who might be near. It bubbles up from her, stifled in her throat, but the laughter soon bursts out.

“Literature?” He holds his hands out as if intending to shush her, but Cassandra barrels forward. She’s learned from experience that no one else cares. There are at least fifteen others from Skyhold in her book club now. “Are you asking for Varric’s books?”

“I’ve never courted someone before. I don’t want to muck it up. I needed – advice. Examples,” Cullen tells her, and the red has reached the roots of his hair.

“Courting someone? Who?” He’s rubbing the back of his neck again, as he turns. He doesn’t need to point them out. His eyes drift, land on Trevelyan, who’s standing on the steps of the castle, speaking to Josephine. The staff held lax in his hands, laughing at something she’s telling him. Cassandra watches Cullen soften at the sight of him, a wistful smile on his lips.

Cassandra leans forward, puts a hand on his chest. “You will need poetry. Candles. Flowers,” she says instantly. He looks back at her, looks absolutely miserable at her suggestions.

“I think I’d like to start at just having a proper conversation with him. Perhaps… flirt,” Cullen says. “How is it so easy to talk about troop movements and chess but not how I – feel.” She pats his chest sympathetically.

“I’ll send the books to your office,” she tells him.

He expects three, perhaps even five books. Instead, one morning, he finds a veritable stack. There are Varric’s books yes, but novels from others as well, and even the promised poetry. In each book, multiple notes and bookmarks from Cassandra, pointing out lines and conversations. Cullen rubs his face with his hand, and chuckles to himself.


	226. Craving (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: i crave you insatiably.’ from the sappho list - any pairing pls!!

He’s gotten comfortable. Streets have been memorized, faces familiar, and the calls of ‘Hawke’ have changed to ‘Champion’. It makes him forget that there’s a challenge in that name, those who will always want to prove themselves. He is the rock in which they crash upon, and his only regret is that he doesn’t have his staff. Half-drunk from a night at the Hanged Man, and the lightning webs between his fingers. Pulling one forward by the front of his shirt, burying his fist in his face. It’s a blow he won’t rise from right away. Hawke thought that after the first few, the rest might run. Instead, they grow bolder.

A relief then, when a streak of white hair appears at the edge of his vision. Fenris kicks one way, scraps with another. Back to back, they face their foes. “I thought tonight was supposed to be peaceful,” Fenris grunts, dodging the knife of one, turning his wrist and the blade back upon the one who wields it.

“When does anything ever go according to plan?” Hawke says, pushing three back with a wave of his hand. When it happens, it’s his own fault. Hawke is the one who steps out of position, who presses the advantage, who leaves Fenris exposed. A hiss, a cry of pain, and Hawke whirls just in time to see one wrench the blade free of Fenris’s back. Just there, at his waist, by his spine, and the blood looks black in the moonlight. Suddenly sober, the mood changes. Lightning into thunder, and the alleyway blooms in flame.

Protected by Hawke’s barrier, Fenris presses a hand against his wound and watches as Hawke wordlessly goes to work. Thin line of his mouth, eyes narrow with fury. Whatever game there was in the fight before, it no longer exists. He kills the last few that stay. He lets the others run. The fire dims, the light dies, and Hawke is moving towards him. “It is – not as bad as it seems,” Fenris says quietly. Hawke’s hands on his shoulders, steering him towards a nearby barrel. He sits gratefully, leans back against the wall.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke says as he kneels down before him. He’s taken Fenris’s hand in his, pulling it away from the wound. “This shouldn’t have – may I?” Fenris nods. A different kind of fire, the same sort of warmth as the barrier. Something achingly protective, raw and real. His magic weaves muscle back together, flesh and blood, imbues him with greater strength than he had before. “An inch to the right and it…” Fenris puts his hand on his shoulder. Hawke looks up to face him, and oh – _oh_. It steals his breathe away, to see the full breadth of Hawke’s concern. Love.

Hawke reaches up, a hand against his nape, pulls him down at the same time Hawke surges upward. Crushing lips against lips, and Hawke’s eyes are squeezed closed, that worried knot between his brows. In the salt and sweetness of it, Fenris feels Hawke’s hand trembling, and the desperation in the kiss of it. He knows he shouldn’t let – but his shoulders ease, and his fingers wind into the front of Hawke’s tunic. “Garrett,” he says softly, on the exhale. Hawke immediately snaps backwards, rises to his feet. His hand slips from his, and Fenris feels that lingering touch. In his palm, and on his lips.  

“I’m sorry.” His back to him, a hand on his hip, the other rubbing the back of his neck. “I shouldn’t have done that,” Hawke says.

“It’s alright,” Fenris tells him. He turns back to face him, some crushingly hopeless expression. The hand slipping from his neck, clenching into a fist. He keeps it stiffly by his side, as though commanding it not to reach out towards Fenris once again.

“No,” he says, “it’s not. I don’t want you to think that I – expect something.”

“I know you do not,” he sighs. “It was a close moment. I’m sure I would have reacted the same if you were the one injured instead.”

“Thank you for saying that,” he says, smiling sadly. Hawke doesn’t believe him. Fenris stands slowly, his fingers playing with the red token wrapped around his wrist. He doesn’t believe him, and Fenris doesn’t fault him for this. It’s his own doing. There’s a guilt in him he can’t give voice to, feelings he can’t speak. A craving, always. A need. Almost three years and not once has Hawke been untoward, unkind. Fenris knows, of course, exactly how Hawke feels about him. However Hawke has taken steps to conceal it, hide it, to keep it buried. Only in these moments of quiet does Fenris see the same depth of feeling in him that he himself possesses. Still, he can’t bring himself to say it.

“Will you let me walk you home?” is what he says instead. “It’s for the best, considering how often trouble seems to find you.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” Hawke says, eyeing the hole in Fenris’s shirt.

“Then we’re in agreement,” Fenris says, putting his hand on Hawke’s arm. “I’ll walk you home and you can buy me a new shirt.”

“When did we agree on that?” Hawke laughs.

“Just now,” he says. Flashing a smile, and he’s grateful for the ease in the switch of the conversation. He lets his hand drift downward, and Hawke says nothing about it when his hand slips into his.


	227. Snowfall (Cullen x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: from the kissing prompt - kissing in the snow with alexi and cullen b l e a s e

Alexi is never hard to find, not if you know where to look. Easy to hear the sounds of the bells on his staff, to feel the reach of his magic. Strings tied to branches, down hallways, little guides for him to follow. On this particular evening, Cullen walks in the snow, away from Skyhold. Following the string left behind, the fading footprints beginning to be filled in by falling snow. He finds him on his hands and knees, digging through the snow. “Hello Cullen,” he says without looking up, behind him, knowing from a single touch of his magic.

“Leliana was looking for you,” he says, “she thought you might be in your workshop.” Cullen kneels down beside him. The fabric on his knees grows wet and cold, instantly. “What are you doing?”

“There’s a certain flower that grows this time of year,” Alexi tells him. A pleased smile spreads across his face, and from beneath the snow, he pulls free a slightly glowing blue. Petals still dusted, the root of it gnarled and grey. It isn’t the flower that Cullen’s paying attention to.

“Your hands are all red,” Cullen says, gently taking the flower from him, laying it on the snow. He takes his hands in his own, gloved, hands. Holding them together, raising them to his mouth. Cupping his hands as he blows on them warmly, rubs them together. “If you’re going to do something like this, you really should have gloves.” He’s pulling at his own, off his hands, and putting them on Alexi’s.

“Cullen,” he chuckles, “I can’t take your gloves.”

“Yes, you can. I have another pair in my office,” he tells him. Their hands are still pressed together. The edges of Alexi’s smile twitches, his cheeks bloom with color – a cause from more than just the cold. Fog on the exhale, a twinge of red in Cullen’s nose. The snow falls, lands softly in the curls of Alexi’s dark hair, flecks of stars.

“We, uh, we should probably get back before Leliana sends out a search party,” Cullen says, rising to his feet. Alexi does as well, trusts Cullen to pick up and carry the flower for him.  

“Why did she send you?” Following behind him, and if only he could see the way the back of Cullen’s neck suddenly flushes a brilliant shade of red. His hand at his nape, as though trying to hide it, and Cullen coughs, clears his throat.

“I may have volunteered to find you,” he says. He stops suddenly, turning to face him. Mild surprise, as Alexi’s eyebrows rise, tilting his head slightly, the staff resting easy in his hands. Cullen steps towards him, sees a snowflake on his cheek. It melts softly into a rain drop. He reaches upwards, tucks the flower behind Alexi’s ear. The instant he does it, he realizes how absolutely _silly_ – but Alexi is pulling at the fingers of one of the gloves, reaching out. Fingertips tapping against his chest plate, moving upwards. Still cold, against his neck, but his palm is warmer, against his cheek.

Alexi leans down, the glow of the petals so delicate against his skin. Nose shifts against nose until lip presses against lip. The kiss is so politely given, unquestionably taken. “Thank you for volunteering,” he says, almost whispered under half-lidded eyes, beginning to pull back. Without hesitation, Cullen reaches out, pulls him back down for another.


	228. Busy Enough (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: something going wrong after closing a rift

The anchor has always hungered. Some aching growl in the palm of his hand, starvation that makes his fingers twitch towards each nearest rift. Now, after closing the Breach, it remains painfully full, fit to burst. Green has bled into his veins, twisting up his arm. He used to know his skin, but now it is blackened, charred, and no longer able to contain what power the anchor possesses. Mahanon has taken careful steps to hide it. He knows there isn’t much time yet, and so, he works quickly at discovering and closing whatever rifts remain.

One of the last ones in Orlais, so near to Nevarra. They’d taken the Imperial Highway from Val Royeaux to Ghislain, choosing after to ride through unmarked territory. Wild hills, unforgiving country. They find it among root and branch, the shadowed forest floor. Trees larger than anything they could have imagined, stretching towards the sky, leaves a ceiling of their own. The rift hums, as they always tend to do, twists and curls in on itself.

“We should have had a larger party,” Cassandra says as she puts one foot on a fallen log. “The Inquisition soldiers are bored.” Mahanon flashes her a grin as he stands beside Iron Bull.

“We need to keep them looking for rifts. We don’t want to miss any,” he tells her.

“I’m perfectly fine with no more demons falling ass backward into our world,” Bull says, hefting the axe on his shoulder. Vivienne smooths down the front of her skirts, and with a wave, banishes the mud from her boots.

“Come along, darling, let’s be done with this one. I’d like to be returned to civilization before nightfall,” she says as she marches past them, staff in her hands, ready to face the demons that claw through the rift to greet them. His hand trembles as he holds his bow, and each arrow drawn is with a whispered prayer. _Do not let me falter_. Be it the years of practice or the prayer, each shot finds their mark. Cassandra keeps them contained, guides them towards Bull’s waiting axe. Vivienne, the bright light in the dark, streaks of flame and shining barriers.

Cassandra pulls her sword from the fear that fades into dust. Standing straight, standing tall, sweat on her brow and looking to the rest of them. She does this all the time. The once over, from head to toe, to make sure they’re alright. Only then does she sheathe her sword, put away her shield. Mahanon takes his place by the rift. Looking up at it, caught between softly swaying branches, as it calls his name and his fingers twitch. Raising his hand upward, and Vivienne is doing the same, covering her mouth as she yawns.

The connection starts slow, begins to build. He used to only feel it in his hand, but now he feels it in his bones. The river in his veins, the oxygen in his lungs. The mountains of his spine, the forest in his head. He feels the way the anchor puts teeth around the rift, begins to chew, begins to swallow. It swells in each glowing tendril that wraps up his arm, pulses in the blackened skin it touches. Squeezing his eyes closed, feeling the last remnants of the rift taken into himself. Only then does he clench his fist, let his hand fall back to his side.

“Well, that’s that,” Vivienne said, shifting her staff from one hand to the other, “I’m quite ready to head back.” Tilting his head upwards, looking at the canopy of leaves that blots out the sun. Mahanon begins to turn, to head back with his others, but the throbbing in his hand will not subside. Instead, it builds. Crying out as he stumbles forward, doubles over, his other hand clamped around his wrist as his arm begins to spasm.

“Mahanon?” Cassandra instantly turns, heads back towards him. It’s as though the very flesh of him is being torn apart. The anchor brightens, sparks, a green glow cast over bark and ground. On his knees and with urgency, he undoes the clasps of his vambrace, tugs off the glove that covers his hand. Cassandra recoils when she sees it, and he hears Vivienne hiss disapproval. Iron Bull is mercifully silent. Where blackened blood drops, a sizzle, and green smoke rises.

“I can’t –” is all the warning he can muster. Crying out as he’s thrown back, ribbons of energy streak from the anchor. Vivienne is quick with the barrier, protecting an exposed Cassandra. Trees are sundered, cracking, breaking, falling underneath the anchor’s assault. Vivienne grunts with effort as she keeps two barriers strong. Rolling onto his stomach, trapping the anchor underneath him, there’s mud on his face and in his hair, on his clothes. One hand clamped over the other, trying to keep it contained.

Vivienne strides forward, rolls him over. She wraps a hand around his wrist as Mahanon curls, restless movements, legs pounding against the ground as he screams with the pain of it. “Control it,” Vivienne tells him. One of her horns is missing, fabric shorn, taken by reckless power.

“I can’t!” Mahanon cries out.

“You can. It is a part of you. Control it,” she says. He forces himself to look at her, to open his eyes, to see past the haze of blurred pain. Her voice is calm, her expression much the same. She gives him a single nod as he begins to take back himself. He had always imagined himself dying in some lush bed, by the side of ones he loved. Not torn to pieces by _this_. Vivienne lets the barriers drop as she pulls back his sleeve, examines the extent of the damage. Cassandra stands over him worriedly, while Bull moves precariously hanging branches out of their way.

“This needs to be removed,” Vivienne says, looking up at Cassandra.

“Not until all the rifts are closed,” Mahanon says weakly. The ground is cold against his back, and the leaves still hide the sun. Whatever happens to him, the world will take no notice. Cassandra kneels down beside him, taking the bandage rolls from her bag. He’s never known her to be so gentle.

“We should write to Dorian,” Cassandra tells him. He’s been so careful. Wearing gloves, long sleeves, never showing one. This is what he feared would happen.

“No,” he says quickly. “He’s busy enough. He doesn’t need to worry about me.” A pained smile. Vivienne and Cassandra exchange a single glance. Mahanon knows if he were to write, if someone were to tell him… he would race back from Tevinter in a heartbeat. He loves him for this, among so many other things, but he isn’t as important as the work Dorian’s doing now. A needless distraction. “I can handle it on my own.”


	229. Just Friends (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: from the drabble angst list "5 - “I thought we were friends.” fenhawke pls

“I thought we were friends,” Hawke tells him. Her arms crossed behind her back, fingertips digging into skin. She’s smiling sweetly enough, leaning against the wall, one leg propped up against it. They stand in the corner together, and he leans against the wall with her. His smile is not so sweet, more hopeful than anything. So close to her, a stray strand of hair curled against his cheek.

“We are. I just thought that since Fenris didn’t want a relationship with you, we could – you know,” he says. At the table nearby, Fenris keeps himself very still. Shoulders stiff, feet planted on the floor. Isabela looks at him, to them, back at him, and gulps down her ale. He knows that everyone else can hear what he’s saying. That’s the point.

“No,” Hawke says, “I don’t.” Pushing herself away from the wall, heading towards the bar. Holding up two fingers, and Corff is always so quick with whatever the Champion desires. He knows that at least she’s good for the coin, unlike many of the others that order from him. Anders watches as she takes those two drinks, goes back to the table. Hawke slides one across the table to Fenris, keeps the other for herself. With a huff, Anders takes a seat at the other end.

They walk home together, as they always do. It’s only sensible, after all, considering they both live in Hightown. Hawke yawns, stretches her arms above her head, and runs fingers through her hair. He keeps his jaw clenched. He knows he shouldn’t say anything. It’s none of his business, but still – Fenris looks at her, and she has a hand on her hip, the other scratching the back of her neck, some quirked expression on her face. He can’t stop the snort of a chuckle.

“I swear my arms need to be just an inch longer to get this spot,” she tells him. Without hesitation, Fenris reaches out, scratches her back just below her finger tips. She gives a low, satisfied groan, “ _Maker_ bless you.” Turning towards him, the grin on her face, and his hand falls back to his side. It’s none of his business, but still –

“You know he’s going to keep asking you,” Fenris says quietly. The grin fades, and Hawke nods.

“I know. My answer still won’t ever change,” she says. She reaches out, tugs the red wrapped around his wrist. “Do you want it to?” She looks at him so clearly. It isn’t a question that’s meant to be cruel. She’s only ever wanted honest answers from him. So he keeps her gaze, and slowly shakes his head. The smallest upturn of her lips, the slightest smile.


	230. Four Leaf Clovers (Cullen x M!Inquisitor) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I NEED ALEXI AND CULLEN'S FIRST TIME

He runs his fingers over the ridges of it. The carefully carved mountains, the swirling text of cities. By now, he knows it by heart. The edges of Orlais, the rivers of Ferelden. The territory that divides them, the forests and deserts at the edges. The familiarity of it is almost terrifying. His fingers brush against one of the figurines. Picking it up in his hand, running a thumb over it. These are no crossed keys, or wings of an owl outstretched. He smiles, raises the lion to his lips.  Alexi clenches the figure in his fist when he feels someone, just there, at the edge of his magic.

He hears the door open, a stifled yawn. “Maker’s breath,” and he knows that voice, “I didn’t think anyone else would be here.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says.

“Any particular reason why?” Cullen asks as he stands beside him, places the papers he was holding onto the war table. Alexi is still turning the figurine in his hand, and Cullen smiles when he sees it.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Alexi says as he leans towards him. Alexi is wearing a long cloak, a sweater underneath, as always. Comfortable pants, and rather than shoes, only woolen socks. Not that Cullen can say he’s any different. A loose tunic, pants, his usual cloak thrown overtop for warmth.

“Fair enough,” he says. “We’ve had reports of a new rift.” A hand splays at the small of Alexi’s back, while his other reaches for his empty hand. Moving it over the map, to the Hissing Wastes. “Venatori have also been sighted, growing in number.” The location shown, and yet, he doesn’t let go of Alexi’s hand. Not yet. “Now you.” His thumb moves gently over his knuckles, as Alexi turns to face him. That arm still around his waist, keeping him close.

“Bad dream,” Alexi murmurs as he leans in.

“About?” Nose shifts against nose, breath warm against lips.

“I can’t remember.” Putting his arm over Cullen’s shoulders, that figurine still in his fist. Hands squeezing together at that first touch of lip against lip. Pressing together, an unsteady inhale. Pulling closer, leaning against each other, and Alexi shifts from one foot to the other as Cullen’s hand moves up his back. Cullen chases each kiss. Consumed and all consuming, eyes closed and lost in it. The taste of mint on his tongue and the smile quirks at the edges of Cullen’s lips. A sure sign that Alexi’s been to the garden before coming here.

“I’ve missed you,” Cullen tells him.

“And yet you’re going to send me away again. To another desert,” Alexi breathes laughter, a hand at the nape of Cullen’s neck, fingers playing with the soft wisps of hair that curl there. Cullen holds him tighter, hugs him closer, and seeks his kiss once again.

“Perhaps we can send soldiers this time,” he murmurs against his lips. They make the most of the days Alexi spends in Skyhold. He hates the weeks spent away. Letters only accomplish so much. They do nothing to soothe the longing of wanting to speak to him, to feel him, to have him by his side. A slow, dull ache at the realization he cannot keep him here with him forever.

“Soldiers can’t close rifts,” he says, although he knows he doesn’t need the reminder. Some knot between his brows as he leans forward, kisses him again. Wet and warm, an explorative tongue, Alexi coiled against him. He wants, he wants – the shell of his ears turns crimson, the blush rises to the back of his neck, just to think of it.

Still, he deepens the kiss. Hands moving to cup Alexi’s face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. Shifting him ever so slightly, hands that move from his face to his shoulders. Cullen traces a trail of kisses along the line of Alexi’s jaw, as his fingers slip underneath his cloak. “I want to see you,” Cullen murmurs, mouth against his neck. He hears Alexi’s sharp inhale. Teeth at soft flesh, a kiss, the bite, the desperate need to touch, to hold, and Cullen is pulling the cloak from his shoulders.

It falls easily enough. Caught, for a moment, at the edge of the table, before it pools around their feet on the floor. The sweater, soft beneath his fingers, falls onto the table. Alexi raises his arms, allows Cullen to pull off the tunic. Gooseflesh ripples like a wave across his chest, his arms. Leaning back against the table, pulling Cullen forward with one hand, still holding the lion in the other. He tilts his head back as Cullen puts teeth to the goblet of his throat. Snapping his head back when he feels Cullen press his hand against his trousers, over his cock. Reaching down, wrapping a hand around his wrist. “Cullen,” he says, so quietly.

They’ve only gone so far. Each time he fears that first rejection. Cullen kisses him in answer, again and again. Until Alexi accepts it, and the grip he keeps slowly loosens, moves back to wind in Cullen’s cloak. He feels the laces of his trousers come undone and Cullen is guiding them downwards, hands over his ass, until they slip down his legs. A step, and then another, and he is free of them.  

All this time, he’s been so close. But now Cullen steps backwards, Alexi’s hand falling from his cloak. From shoulder to rib, Cullen’s eyes follow the lines of him. The gentle swell of his hips, the v that marks him just there. The well-defined muscle, the years of expertly wielding a staff. Long, lithe legs, made for a dancer. The birthmarks, beauty marks, and he makes a note of each and every one. The moonlight falls upon him, this statue made of clay, and Cullen finds it hard to swallow, to breathe. “What is it?” Alexi whispers, suddenly shy.

“You’re beautiful,” Cullen says hoarsely. “I want to touch you. Can I touch you?”

“Please,” he says. Surging forward, close as can be. Fingertips dust across his shoulders, down his arms. Hand twisting up in hand, and he takes the figurine from Alexi’s hand, taking the time to kiss his knuckles first. The lion rolls back onto the war table, onto the papers. Cullen kisses down the crook of his neck, a gentle bite to his shoulders. His skin is cool beneath his touch. He takes the cloak from his own shoulders, drapes it gently over Alexi. A sight, to see him wear it so proudly so.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” Cullen tells him, so utterly sincere, some desperate affection in his voice. Alexi pulls the cloak tighter around himself, head bowed, cheeks a furious red. Cullen tips his face upward, fingers underneath his chin. The kiss is chaste, although long, savoring the feeling of being able to _kiss_ him. A hand at his cheek, fingers at the soft curling hair behind his ear.

“Cullen,” he says, licking his lips, raising his hand to wrap around Cullen’s wrist. At the sound of his name, he smiles so tenderly, leans forward to kiss him once again. Eyes half lidded as he returns it, tells him, “I want to see you too.” He puts hands on his face, and with it, his magic swells. That subtle sense of warmth blooms, liquid heat that follows his every touch, his way of seeing. A thumb, moving over Cullen’s lips, through the stubble on his cheeks. Tracing the shell of his ear, leaning forward. Taking his earlobe into his mouth, a teasing suck, the bite. Hands shift over his chest, his tunic, edging ever downwards.

Slipping underneath, and skin finds skin. Alexi rests his head in the crook of his neck, inhales deeply. “Cullen,” he murmurs, treading touch across his back, shoulder blades under fingertips. Cullen wraps arms around him, touches him in turn. Listening to the way Alexi’s breathing hitches over the ridges of his spine, the cool exhale at the flat of his back. Alexi’s fingers creep at the edges of Cullen’s trousers, while he runs his hands over his hips, and further in still. Oh, the shuddering inhale as he wraps a hand around the base of Alexi’s cock. Alexi’s fingers stutter at his hips, regain their senses, and find their way to the lacing of Cullen’s trousers.

Cullen is clumsy at this, unsure of himself, but so very eager. Alexi puts a hand over his. “Slower,” he says. His movements ease, stroking him in the way Alexi shows him. “A little tighter.” His voice barely audible, and Alexi groans as Cullen does what he asks. The cloak is warm, smells like him. Surrounded by him like this, and Alexi wraps an arm around his neck, over his shoulders, while the other frees Cullen’s straining cock from the confines of his trousers.

“Alexi.” At the sound of his name, he lifts his head from Cullen’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded. Cullen closes the distance with a soft kiss, and over that, the deeper one. Inhaling the breath of him as they masturbate each other, Alexi half-sitting, half-leaning against the war table. Cullen steps closer, a hand moving over Alexi’s hip, under his thigh, raising his leg. Now more sitting than anything else, holding onto Cullen to steady himself, as Cullen presses their cocks together, wraps his hand around them both. Alexi’s hand now fists into Cullen’s tunic, keeping that leg wrapped around his waist, Cullen holding him tightly. 

The subtle thrust of his hips, fucking against him, each other, the ceaseless rhythm of his hand. Breathing coming quicker now, interspersed with the occasional groan. Leaking pre-cum, that salt, sliding against each other and the movement of his hips grows rougher, needful, and Cullen pulls Alexi’s bottom lip between his teeth, surges forward for another kiss. Alexi’s leg holds tightly to him, the other trembling, raised up on toes, pressed against the floor. The hand holding his thigh squeezes, supports him utterly.

The kiss Cullen gives him here, now, is unexpectedly tender, gentle. Cullen is watching him, his every shift in expression – the slightly parted lips, red with attentions given, and the blush in his cheeks. Half-lidded darkened eyes underneath darker lashes. The birthmark on his lip that almost mirrors his, the beauty marks that pepper his face. If Alexi could see Cullen’s face, he would see the devotion in it, the adoration. Instead he only feels the way Cullen’s cock moves against his, the careful strokes of his hand. The kiss against his cheek.

Alexi’s head tips back, his hand leaving his shirt to steady himself against the war table. Taking advantage of his sudden vulnerability, Cullen wraps his mouth around Alexi’s neck. Sucking gently, the smallest bite, kissing the mark he leaves. Underneath his hand, the war table suddenly grows green, and clovers bloom between his fingers. A stuttered groan, and Cullen can feels his cock twitch, pulse, and spill. It doesn’t take him long to follow.

Breathing heavy, and forehead presses against forehead. On an exhale, Alexi kisses him. “I love you,” he says. Cullen’s thumb is moving against his thigh, wearing some affection circle. He smiles, kisses the tip of Alexi’s nose.

“I love you too,” he tells him. He wants to stay there forever. So close like this, basking in the warmth of affection, and Alexi’s untethered magic. No rifts to close, no Venatori to find, no looming breach. Just them, together.

“We should probably clean up,” Alexi reminds him with a smile.

“Right! Uh – right,” Cullen says, stepping backwards.

 

* * *

 

Josephine squints at the table. There’s a single four leaf clover by the edge of the map on the war table. Other greens as well, which look to have been hastily cut. A polite knock at the door. “I’ve informed the Inquisitor of the meeting, Lady Josephine,” the servant says with a small curtsy.

“Thank you very much,” she says, and the dismissal is in the thanks. However, the servant lingers. Josephine looks back at her. “Yes?” The servant’s cheeks go a pleased pink as the smile crosses her lips.

“The Inquisitor was sleeping in the Commander’s cloak, milady. Thought you’d like to know.” At the other end of the war table, Leliana bursts into a wide gleeful grin.

“We did! Thank you ever so much,” she says. The servant curtsies again, closes the door. Leliana and Josephine look at each other and begin to laugh. “Oh this meeting is going to be more fun than I expected.”


	231. Softer Endings (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: i'd like to request ‘let there exist for us not one single further sorrow.’ FENHAWKE IF YOU PLEASE

She scratches the top of Barks’ head. His ears twitch but he doesn’t wake, sleeping soundly on top of her, paws and head on her chest. Awake, but not able to get up, and it’s not just the dog keeping her in bed. Fenris curls close, his head on her pillow, and his legs over hers. His hand on her shoulder, and white hair strays across his forehead. The smallest sounding snores, and Hawke smiles as she leans her head against his. They’re woken together, as Barks rolls over, decides he wants to be between the two of them.

Fenris groans as he rolls over onto his back, on his side of the bed, stretches arms above his head. Barks pays no mind to the disruption he’s caused, laying on his back, paws in the air. Hawke rolls over to hug the dog tightly, bury her face in his fur, and give his belly a playful rub. Fenris slowly sits up, feet over the side of the bed. Rolling his shoulders, his head side to side, trying to put some life back in his bones. He looks over his shoulder, at them, and prompt leans back over. “Good morning,” he says, as he presses a kiss to the only part of Hawke’s head that he can find.

“Good morning,” she says, as she resurfaces.

They cook breakfast together. Barks, in the yard, rolling in dew covered grass. He does the eggs, she handles the bacon. She hums under her breath, putting a hand against his back as she moves around to his other side, reaching for the pepper. They sit at the table together, and Hawke rubs her foot against his leg. “Perhaps we could go to the city today, and see Varric,” he says. Hawke grins at him in between bites.

“You ran out of book again, didn’t you? This is just a ploy to go to the market.” The smile quirks at the edges of his lips.

“Perhaps,” he says. They sold the estate years ago, moved just outside of Kirkwall. To a place close enough to the others if they were needed, and far enough away to be left alone. Outside their cottage, Hawke stretches, picks up a large stick. Throwing it into the river, and Barks bounds after it happily. Fenris wraps his arms around her waist, his chest against her back, and rests his chin on her shoulder. Putting her hands over his, leaning against him, as they watch Barks shake off the water.

Birds fly overhead, crickets sound in the forest. The softly babbling water, and Fenris kisses the crook of her neck, squeezes her tightly. “I love you,” he murmurs. She twists in his arms, turns to face him, takes his face into her hands. Smiling as she rubs their noses together.

“I love you too,” she tells him just before the kiss.


	232. Liars (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hi Lisa!! I hope you're doing well <3 I love the Sappho prompts so much: ‘there is a moment when i look at you and no speech is left in me.’ for any pairing?

Pulling the ties from her hair. Loose braids that fall down over her shoulders. Running her fingers through them, tangled and messy, but free. Zevran reaches into his bag, pulls the comb free. Standing behind her, bending over, resting his arms on her shoulders, waving the brush in her face. “May I?” he asks. She looks back and upwards at him, gives him a grateful nod. He stands at her back, gently drags the brush through her hair. He takes his time with it, making sure never to tug or tear.

The morning air is crisp, the forest filled with low fog. The slightest breeze, birds that chirp to each other, hop from branch to branch. It’s quiet, isolated, and the others still sleep. “Do you ever think,” he says as he runs the brush through again, “dear Warden, I might try and kill you?”

“Finish the job,” she says without hesitation.

“Exactly so.”

“Would you go back to the Crows?”

“Of that, I am not sure, but it is always a possibility.” At this, she finally turns, looking over her shoulder at him, as he holds her hair in his hands. Studying his face intently, some unreadable expression.

“Do you ever think that I might try and kill you?” she asks. He sleeps with a dagger under his pillow. He flinches whenever someone unexpected come up behind him. The first touch is always unwelcome, until he knows who, and why. He over exerts himself in battle, he takes pains to show how useful he is. Reading maps, picking locks – he will volunteer for anything and everything, in an effort to show his great worth. He does not once step out of line. If he is to falter, fail, then he will – it will be just like the Crows. No longer needed, wanted. Better off gone.

Zevran smiles warmly at her. “Never,” he says. Unexpected, when she stands. Her hair slipping from his hand as she reaches out, puts a palm against his cheek. Blinking at her, unsure of what her next move might be. Some knot between her brows as she looks at him, leans close.

“Liar,” she says. She holds him in an unflinching gaze. “You’re waiting for a betrayal that won’t come, Zevran. If you’d feel better leaving, then do so. I won’t stop you. If you stay, you’re always welcome by my side. I said that I’d protect you from the Crows, and I won’t go back on that.” She pats his cheek gently. “Thank you for brushing my hair.” Pulling long locks over one shoulder, moving to the other side of camp. Beginning to take down her tent, and he stands in the same spot she left him.

There’s never been any indication to doubt her words. To think that she might decide to be rid of the killer in their midst. Of him. He doesn’t trust it. Not yet. Hard to break that habit, but still – he tries. “Any time,” he says quietly, “Warden.” 


	233. Follow You (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 8 and 9 from the angst list for fen and your hawke, please. I'm trying to cry and i know you're good at making people cry

The battle was lost, before it ever begun. For the third time in so few years, Kirkwall burns and Hawke has failed once again to save it. Red Templars roam the streets, Wardens with their minds lost and the demons that stand beside them. Hands underneath his arms, dragging him into the alley, biting her bottom lip. Her chin wavers and the tears roll down her cheeks without pause. Collapsing in a corner, wrapping arms around him, hugging him to her chest. Burying her face in the crook of his neck, eyes squeezed closed.

Fenris does not hug her back. His head hangs limply, chin at his chest. Her fingers wrap tight around the edges of his breastplate, his back against her, their legs splayed out together. There’s blood on his face, in his hair. Hawke presses her mouth against his shoulder, but it can’t stop the wheezed breath, choking sobs. She would beg gods to give him back to her, but she knows that none listen. She can’t stop crying. It doesn’t matter. She’ll follow him into that abyss soon enough. Corypheus’s army will find them. It will be her fault.

She wishes she could have kept him safe. She wishes she could have given him the life he deserves. She’s still holding him when they find her. When the fires have turned to embers, when Kirkwall has turned to dust. She can’t stop crying. She dies alone, in the dark. 


	234. Epilogue, Truly (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Since you BROKE my HEART with that ‘the cure’, I request you do one where the cure is found & they live happily ever after because ZEVRAN DESERVES HAPPINESS DAMMIT.
> 
> (in reference to my fic called Epilogue)

He traces the scars on Rémi’s back. Lines of pure white against pale skin, that perfect complement to his own. Following every twist, every jagged piece of lightning, until Rémi rolls his shoulders. He lies on his stomach, arms crossed underneath his head, and he murmurs into the pillow at the feel of Zevran’s tickling touch. Still, he doesn’t wake completely. Zevran smiles as he leans over him, drapes himself over his lover. Threading a hand through his hair, the other at his shoulder, and Zevran presses a careful kiss to his cheek.

“What time is it?” Rémi asks, his eyes still closed, voice hoarse with lack of use. Zevran smiles at the sound, rests his chin on his shoulder. No matter how many years pass, he never tires of watching him sleep. Those long lashes, perfectly parted lips. A face he knows, will never forget, loves deeply and unconditionally. He twirls a lock of his hair on his fingers.

“Do not worry, _Caro_ ,” Zevran tells him, “go back to sleep. We have all the time in the world.” Zevran rolls back over onto his side of the bed, stretches arms above his head. Rémi chases his warmth, rolls with him, and tucks himself underneath his arm, resting his head on his chest. Zevran wraps arms around him, presses a kiss to the crown of his head. Closing his eyes, unable to banish the smile. Rémi falls back to sleep, listening to the lullaby of Zevran’s heart.


	235. Deep Roads (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a friend

Sleep doesn’t find her. Staring up at a ceiling of stone, feeling it crushing down around her. Sitting up instantly, running a hand through her hair. Squeezing her hands into fists, splaying them out once again. Breath comes tighter, quicker, and she rises to her feet. Walking away from the dying embers of the campfire, circling around their tents. Leaning against rock, following a mindless path, fingers bumping over jagged edge and flattened wall. The lava churns and bubbles, gurgles below her, casting light and shadow. She longs for the sun.

For clear blue sky, clouded rain. Stars whose shapes she can trace, the breeze at her back. Grass between her fingers, cool mud at her feet. She turns her head, swears she can feel the wind. Some way out. She follows it automatically, down twisting path and broken tunnel. “Lyna,” he calls out from behind her, “where are you going?”

“Out of here,” she tells him, stopping in her tracks, turning to face him. Her hands are in trembling fists once again, unsteady at her sides. Zevran raises his eyebrows, closes the distance. “There has to be a way out from here.”

“My dear Warden,” he says, “we are in very Deep Roads. The path to the surface will take weeks.” She glares at him as he says it, her heart beating wildly in the cage of her chest, blood pounding in her ears. 

“How can you stand it?” She demands the answer from him. “I feel like I’m standing in my grave.” Zevran reaches out carefully, rests his hands on her shoulders.

“May I?” She looks at him warily, but gives him a nod. He moves a hand to cover her eyes, the other to the nape of her neck. He pulls her close, keeps her in the darkness of his touch. “There is a shop in Antiva. It is mostly for food, but many choose to go there to sit, and talk. Imagine a crowd of people, families, around small tables, drinking wine and eating pastries. Mhmm, the warm sun shining down, the smell of fresh bread mixing with the wax of the leatherworking next door.”

“I see it every time I close my eyes. I know these Roads have stood for thousands of years, dear Warden. They will stand for a thousand more. You have nothing to fear,” he says. Her head against his chest, listening to the calm heartbeat of him, the quiet soothing of his voice. Slowly taking his hands away from her face, putting them on her shoulders once again.

“You need rest, Lyna. Come back to camp with me, and I will tell you stories. Anything you wish to hear,” he says. “Or, we can wander. I only ask that I wander with you. It is not safe, alone.” For the first time in days, some of the weight on her shoulders lifts. Her vision once blurry, now comes back to her. Putting a hand flat over her chest, feeling her pulse go back to normal.

“Camp, then. I’m interested in these stories of yours,” she tells him. The smile spreads across his face, and he extends his hand for her to take.


	236. Want (Zevran x M!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Smut 3 or 17 3 - “I’ve been thinking about you all day.” 17 - “Oh my God, do that again.”

“I have been thinking of you all day,” he breathes, “your absence has been a torture, my Warden.” Hands upon his face, fingertips brushing against the soft wisps of hair by the nape of his neck. He presses Rémi’s back against the wall, moving his hands over his shoulders, down his arms, slipping underneath his shirt. A leg between his, gentle pressure, and Rémi groans at the feel of it, wraps arms around his neck. Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, running his tongue along it, and Zevran closes the kiss.

A touch that moves along the hips of him, and ever upwards. The warmth of his skin against his, the beat of Rémi’s heart underneath his palm. Oh the pleasure of it, to feel that beat quicken. To have Rémi slide his fingers through his hair, grabbing a fistful, pulling Zevran’s face even closer. Zevran’s attentions move from his chest, down his waist once again, slipping into the waistband of his trousers, cupping his hands over his ass. Hips shift against hips, the subtle thrust against one another, and Zevran moans into the kiss.

All at once, Rémi’s hands push against his shoulders. Shoving him back, and surging forward once again. The eager bite to the soft flesh of his neck, the kiss to the goblet of his throat as his fingers tear at the buttons of his shirt. Zevran is much the same, desperate fists in Rémi’s tunic, pulling it quickly over his head and throwing it across the room. Cheeks flushed, the shell of his ears much the same, half-lidded eyes filled with want of him. Fidgeting touch at the lacings of trousers, stepping back, stepping out of them, and Rémi is doing the same. Hands running over shoulders, over skin, fierce kiss over fiercer kiss.

A smirk as Rémi puts hands against his chest. Running his tongue over his lips, pushing Zevran back onto the bed. Hands wrap around his ankles, and Rémi slowly moves up his legs as he kneels down at the very edge of the bed. Tight grip at his waist, pulling Zevran closer towards his mouth. It’s all Zevran can do to reach up and grab a pillow as he’s pulled down. Rémi hoists one of Zevran’s legs over his shoulders. He nips, kisses, his way down his thigh. His hands, ever ceaselessly moving, run over his other leg, his hips, counting the space between his ribs.

A sharp exhale as Rémi puts his face against his cock, looking up at Zevran with sharp eyes. Warmth breath, the hitch of anticipation. His tongue runs from base to tip, swirling over the head of his cock. Zevran groans as his eyes flutter closed, his head turning, a fist winding into the very edge of the pillow. He takes his time with it. A kiss, the lick, tasting the salt that begins to leak from him. The endless touching, the warmth, the wet – the stuttered groan, the arching of his back, as Rémi puts his mouth firmly over Zevran’s cock, takes him deep.

His tongue moves tightly, works its way down. Such a vulgar, gorgeous, sound, and Zevran can’t stop himself from threading fingers through Rémi’s hair. Holding tightly as Rémi’s head bobs. He hums with love of him, a shuddering exhale, as Zevran feels every note in the vibrations of Rémi’s throat. Rémi’s hand tightens over Zevran’s hip, holding him down, in place, as Zevran squirms underneath his ministrations. The thrust upwards into his mouth, the need to fuck. Zevran can barely keep his eyes open, but Rémi, Rémi doesn’t dare close his.

Watching the flush on Zevran’s face, the blush that reaches his chest. The way his head rolls back and forth, the breathless parting of his lips. The miniscule moans and groans, the words that slip from his mouth. “ _Mmmmah, hah, hhh, Caro, sì_ ,” he says, heel of his foot pressing against Rémi’s back, “ _hahh_ – _Caro mio_ , _per favore-_! _Mhmm_.” An endless torrent of voiced desire, curling toes. Arching his back as Zevran’s hands move from his hair, clench in the bedsheets, biting his bottom lip between his teeth.

He spills down Rémi’s throat, and he accepts all he has to offer gladly. Rolling back on his heels, wiping the edges of his mouth as he smiles. Rising to his feet, kneeling over the bed, over him, crawling upwards. Zevran’s fingertips trace gently up his arms, as he looks adoringly upwards. “Always, you are the death of me, Warden,” Zevran says hoarsely. Rémi smiles as he brushes a stray lock of hair behind his ears, leans down to press a kiss to his lips.

It lingers, and Zevran is slow to open his eyes after it. Rémi lets his weight gently drop over him, as Zevran wraps arms around him. “My turn,” he says, practically purring. The grin bursts across Zevran’s face as he grabs a handful of ass, flips them over.


	237. Silence (Cullen x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: if I may, can I request something Soft for Alexi and Cullen? pls and thank u, ily

He tilts his head slightly, his staff shifting from one hand to the other, as he stops. Looking over his shoulder, and just there, someone at the edge of his magic. He sees in echoes. The pulse of his magic, timed with his heartbeat, a blanket for him to walk without fear. He knows people from their sound, shape, their color. Vivienne, shades of royal purple. Cassandra, deeper reds, brighter pinks, surrounded by metal. He knows them all. This person, however, he does not. Shape cracked, jagged red spikes reaching into a churning ocean. Still, Alexi smiles. “Are you new to Skyhold?” he asks. The answer isn’t one he expects.

Charging forward steps and Alexi steps back, throws up the barrier in an instant. It doesn’t matter. A hand crushes against his face, and the silence steals the air from his lungs. He’s thrown backwards, his head smashed against the wall. Plunged into darkness, stars he shouldn’t be able to see. Slumping to the ground, ears ringing with a high pitched whine. The staff has fallen out of his hands, and so he reaches for the knife on his belt. Holding it in an unsteady grip, and Alexi snaps his fingers by his ears. Nothing. Not a sound. Just that awful whine.

Another snap of his fingers. Opening his mouth intending to scream, and he cannot hear the sound. Pressing his back against the wall, curling his knees up to his chest. His head throbs, aches, and the silence has left such a haze. Reaching for magic that won’t come, and his knuckles turn white around the knife. Unable to see, unable to hear, a stranger walking Skyhold’s halls. He isn’t sure for how long he sits there, alone, waiting for the stranger to come back.

A hand on his knee and Alexi instinctively thrusts forward with the knife. Another hand on his wrist, shaking the knife from his hands. Squirming away from this person who touches him, but they’re reaching for his other hand, pulling them to their face. Clammy palms settle on cheeks. Stubble underneath his fingertips. His thumb moves over lips, and his breath hitches when he feels it. “Cullen,” he says, although he cannot hear his own voice. Cullen’s gloved hand moves gentle touch over his knuckles. Hands moving down his arms, an arm at his back, underneath his legs.

In one swift move, Cullen lifts Alexi into his arms. Alexi wraps arms around his neck, buries his face in the fur of his cloak. Closing his eyes, holding tightly, breathing in the scent of elderflower and oak moss. Familiar. Safe. Protective. He knows he’s being carried up stairs. Cullen sets him down gently onto a chair, and Alexi quickly reaches out, grabs hold of the edges of Cullen’s cloak. “Don’t leave,” he speaks it to the darkness, the sound of his own voice some distant, unknowable murmur. He feels his hand being lifted from the cloak.

Cullen wraps Alexi’s hand with his own. Fingers entwining as he takes a seat beside him. Cullen looks at the healer who stands before them. “I can sense the silence from here, Commander,” she says as she reaches out, fingertips touching Alexi’s head. He startles, but Cullen squeezes his hand, and he relaxes, lets her do her work. “Someone gave him a mighty knock.” Her hands glow with magic, massaging against his skull.

“I’ve done what I can. He isn’t injured, and the silence will wear off,” she tells him.

“And his hearing?” She shrugs.

“It’ll come back soon enough. He’ll likely have a mighty headache. I’d keep him in bed, Commander,” she tells him.

“Thank you,” he says, dismissing her with his words. A short curtsey, the polite nod of her head, and she disappears down the stairs and out the door. Cullen stands, reaches for Alexi’s other hand. Guiding him to the bed, taking off one of Alexi’s thicker cloaks. Folding it underneath his arms, resting it where they were once sitting. At his absence, Alexi sits up.

“Cullen?” Staring forward, fists in the bedsheets. Cullen sits on the edge of the bed, puts his hand on Alexi’s shoulder.

“I’m here.” Alexi makes no sign of having heard him. Cullen shrugs off his own cloak, undoes the straps of his armor. The breastplate falls to the floor, and he kicks off his boots. Crawling into the bed with him, putting a hand on his chest. Alexi slowly eases, lies down with him. They face each other, and Alexi cups Cullen’s face in his hands. A touch that moves endlessly, trying to reassure himself that it’s him. Cullen wraps arms around his waist, pulls him in close.

“Don’t worry,” Cullen says. “I’ll protect you.”


	238. Protective (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Angst list #12 for fenrisxhawke!! “Who did this? Who hurt you?”

Pressing a hand to his head, groaning as he pushes himself up to sit with the other. His head spins with the effort of it. He’s in his own bed, bandages wrapped around his waist, his arm and although someone has healed him – the pain is still echoing, a lesson in recklessness. He’s slow to open his eyes, only does when he’s sure the world will stay in one place. He doesn’t expect to see Fenris, standing beside the bed, his hands clenched in fists.

“Fenris?” Hawke says, as he looks blearily upwards.

“Who did this? Who hurt you?” His words are clipped, some muted anger. Knotted brows, stiff shoulders, and a straight back. More than the anger, the outrage, there’s the worry. Concern on downturned lips, troubled eyes. Fenris’s sword is leaning against the fireplace. Hawke glances at it briefly, back to him.

“I already took care of them,” he tells him.

“You are a poor liar,” Fenris says bitterly. “Tell me who did this.” Hawke shakes his head, regrets the action immediately. Hissing as he holds his head once again, the ceiling spinning. Fenris’s shoulders fall, and he leans forward, a hand on Hawke’s shoulder. Gently pressing him down, to lie back in the bed.

“I found you,” Fenris blurts out. “There were a few around you, but I could not – I know there were more, Hawke. You were babbling. You don’t – you don’t know what it was like.” Those last few words are faded, murmured, and there – the anger fades, replaced by worry completely. His hand squeezes on his shoulder, and it’s as though he realizes he’s still touching Hawke, goes to move away. Hawke catches his hand in his.

“Please don’t put yourself in harm’s way because of me,” he says softly. Fenris makes a noise of disapproval, the angered click of his tongue, looking away from him briefly. The frown is still there, and he clenches his jaw together. He looks back at him slowly.

“Then you should stop being harmed. You are the Champion, Hawke. You cannot afford to be careless like this. You should have someone with you always –”

“I don’t need to be escorted, Fen,” he says, leaning back in the pillows. Smiling slightly, his thumb running over Fenris’s knuckles. “Unless it’s by you.” Another noise of disapproval as Fenris wrenches his hand from his, but Hawke doesn’t miss the way the tips of his ears burn red.

“Someone has to keep you safe. If it must be me, then I will,” Fenris tells him. Hawke’s smile burns brighter.

“Thank you for saving me.”

“ _Tsk_. You are welcome.”  


	239. Necklaces (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I saw a post that read "putting your girl’s necklace on for her is peak intimacy" and right after I saw your commission of Zevran and your warden Noya. So naturally, I have to ask if you can write a fic for them with that necklace post as a prompt !

She wears her hair in braids. Pulled back tightly, spun round. So when she lets it hang loose, he takes advantage. She sits on the floor, leaning back against the chair, resting her head on his knee. A hand around his ankle, fingertips circling lightly against skin. Gathering locks in his hands, running the brush through them. One leg on either side of her, bare feet planted against wood floors. These moments he doesn’t squander.

He revels in the peace of it. The quiet breeze from the open window, the softly fading light of a sun that yearns to set. The distant conversation of the Wardens in the courtyard, and them, apart from it all. The kiss Noya plants absentmindedly against his knee, the way she folds one knee against her chest. Her other hand resting over her foot, tapping out a song he doesn’t know, as she watches the clouds cross the sky.

Zevran puts the brush on the table next to him. Gathering her hair up all in one, pulling it over her neck. Her head leans forward as he touches her nape, fingertips over that first ridge of her spine. Soft wisps of hair at the back of her neck, curling carefully, and his touch is moving over her shoulders. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the necklace. Leaning over as he undoes the clasp, wraps it around her. Doing the clasp once again when it’s on her, pulling her hair free of it.

He follows the delicate golden chain down her neck, ghosting touch over her collarbone, the goblet of her throat, circling where it rests in the middle of her chest. A kiss, and another, peppering them against the pointed tip of her ear as she picks up the locket, and studies it carefully. “A gift, for you, _amor_ ,” he tells her, breath warm and speaking softly. She tilts her head back, to look up at him.

Reaching upwards, linking hands behind his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. “You didn’t have to,” she says.

“I wanted to,” he tells her. She smiles.

“Here I thought my gift was you coming home to me,” she says. He pushes the chair back quickly, and she laughs at the urgency of it. Sitting on the floor with her, legs against legs, his arms wrapped around her. Resting his chin on her shoulder as they sway, as he holds her tightly.

“My Warden,” he murmurs. Kisses against the soft flesh of her neck, “these things you say will be the death of me.” A smirk, as she reaches behind her, threads fingers through his hair.

“I can say even better things.” Breath hitching, giving her a squeeze.

“Do go on,” he says, his hand moving upwards, circling the locket.


	240. Late (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Smut, 20 f!fenhawke “I’m going to be late because you can’t keep it in your pants.”

He lays on the bed the wrong way. Feet hanging off the edge, head much the same. Stray wisps of hair cross his forehead, fall freely. Watching Hawke pace back and forth, from the closet to her mirror, adjust something, and go back. “Hawke,” he says, extending his hands in her direction, gesturing over. One of her sleeves isn’t fully on, hanging off her shoulder, the back of the dress completely undone. Only one earring, stockings laid over the dresser, bare feet padding against the floor as she makes her way over to him.

“What is it? If I don’t figure this out soon, we’re going to be late –” Pulling at her skirts, pulling her closer, lifting them up, hands wrapping around bare thighs, moving upwards.

“Do you care?” Fenris asks as he hooks fingers into the hem of her underwear, slips them downwards. She has no choice but to take steps forward, where he wants her to be. Knees pressing against the bedframe, a leg on either side of him, and he breathes warmth against her cunt.

“Not anymore,” she says. A smirk as he lifts his head upwards, as she holds her skirts out of his way and bites her bottom lip. He starts slow, teasing kisses at her cunt, as his arms wrap around her. Bending her down to him, and she tilts her head back as she feels his tongue run along every fold, curl around her clit. Her lips part as she breathes a soft sigh of desire, pleasure, eyes closing and lost in it.

He brings about one hand, his thumb a hard touch at her. Feeling his fingertips at her thigh, massaging her gently as he eats at her voraciously. A hunger given, completed want. One of his legs folds on the bed as he holds himself to her, tastes the sweetness of her cunt. His hand squeezing against her thigh, the other circling her clit, and his tongue parts folds, presses at her entrance. “Maybe we shouldn’t go,” Hawke says. He stops, instantly. Moving her back, and she forgets how fast he is sometimes.

“We’re going,” he tells her, hands on her arms, pushing her back, “and you’re going to wear that dress.” Standing on her toes as she leans against the wall, and he lifts up her other leg, a hand under her thigh. The other one is busy as moving her skirts, taking himself in hand. A careful kiss, planted soundly, ensuring that he doesn’t smear her makeup. The head of his cock rubs against the entrance of her cunt as she wraps arms around his neck.

He thrusts himself inside to the hilt, savors her stuttering moan. Reaching for her other leg, lifting her up into his arms completely. She wraps her legs around his waist, hugging him tightly, her mouth by his ear. Listening to the way her breathing hitches, flutters, as he draws himself out, buries himself inside her once again. Biting her bare shoulder as she bounces in his arms, taken with each thrust of his hips.

“Hawke,” he murmurs as she takes his earlobe into her mouth, threading a hand through his hair. Grabbing a fistful, holding it tightly, and his hands squeeze against her. The wall is their careful brace as he fucks her thoroughly, her breasts bouncing with each heavy thrust. “Hawke, Hawke, Hawke.” Peppering kisses against her skin, her shoulders, and the curve of her neck. “You’re so beautiful, you’re always so beautiful, no matter what you wear.”

Makeup be damned. She leans back, takes his face in her hands. The kiss is fierce, sloppily given, and Fenris returns it with equal passion. Tongue against tongue, a knot between his brows. “Fuck,” she groans hoarsely, her head tipping back slightly, her hands fisting in the back of his tunic. She feels so good around his cock. Clenching tightly, that warmth, her wet, and he loves the sounds that come with each thrust. As though she cannot bear to have him so deep inside her, can’t bear it at all to have him leave her.

Her back arches, and she leans against him, away from the wall, his strength straining under the weight of it all. “Fenris,” she says on exhaled breathe, “ _mmhmm-ah_ , Fenris!” Her mouth wraps around the soft flesh of the crook of his neck, a bite that doesn’t hurt. Her legs tremble around him, hold him inside her as her cunt clenches in waves around him, her hands shaking at his back. The sound of her cumming always does him in. Steals him along with her, spills his seed inside of her.

He holds her still as they breathe together. When he’s sure of the steadiness of his legs, he slowly carries her to the bed. Setting her down carefully, a kiss to the crown of her head, her forehead, her nose, and her lips. Her lipstick is smeared against her mouth, and he smiles as he puts his thumb against it, fixes it for her. “We’re going to be late,” he tells her coyly. A playful punch against his arm.

“Whose fault is that!”


	241. Shields (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: ‘your sweet speaking and lovely laughing– oh, it puts the heart in my chest on wings.’ for Noya in regards to Zevran

Ruins in the woods, tall stone walls brought low by time. Vines that twist and curl, reach toward the sun. Moss at home in the cracks, the rubble buried in long grass and earth. She finds a sunny patch of that earth, lays back. Closing her eyes as clouds pass overhead, light filtered through them. There’s a patch of her armor missing on her left side, and a good chunk of her flesh with it. Zevran sits cross-legged beside her, pulls the kit from his bag.

“You are quite lucky, my dear Warden, that this missed more important things,” he tells her, practically scolding, a worried knot between his brows as he threads string through the needle. Leliana and Alistair are leaning together in another part of the ruin, her head on his shoulder and his head leaning on hers. Bloodied and weary, he doesn’t blame them for falling asleep immediately. The ache in his bones begs him to do the same.

“I should say that you’re the lucky one that I was there to protect you,” she says, opening her eyes to look up at him, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

“I do not need your protection,” he says as he breaks the string with his teeth, pops open the bottle of alcohol. She hisses as he pours it over the wound, casts it aside, and presses her flesh together.

“I’m the one with the shield,” she says, and he doesn’t look away from what he’s doing. Careful stitches, kind fingers against her flesh.

“And where is that shield now?” Splintered, broken on the battlefield. She’ll be needing a new one. “I am not worth this,” he mutters it, low and angry. Blood not his own on his hands, on the needle. She reaches up, puts a gentle hand against his face. A thumb moving slowly over his cheekbone, brushing back hair behind his ear.

“If the greatest assassin that ever lived couldn’t kill me, how can some measly darkspawn do it?” She says. He barks harsh laughter, but finally softens, leans into her touch as he ties the knot. His hair shines so brightly in the sunlight, highlights the tattoo on his face, under her palm. Those attentive eyes, worried mouth. She smiles at him.

“A shield is easy to replace, Zevran. You can’t be,” she tells him. His eyes widen as his hand settles over hers. Shifting where he sits, leaning over her. “You mean more to me than anything else in the world.” He lets his forehead rest against hers.

“You say the sweetest things,” he murmurs, the tips of his ears burning red.

“Yes, well, don’t tell anyone,” she says. Finally he laughs truly, completely, pushing away the kit so that he can lie down beside her, cradle her in his arms. The long grass sways in the breeze, birds hop over broken stone.


	242. Longing (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt given: can i get a ‘you cooled my mind burning with longing.’ in whatever pairing speaks to you?

Her first step is hesitant. The worried knot between her brows, her fists pressed against her chest. Her arms open, reaching towards him, and her next step is tentative. Slow to close the distance between them, to rest her hands gently on his shoulders. Fingers tap underneath his chin, raise his head. Hawke smiles slightly, a palm over his cheek, brushing away the tears that don’t fall. Moving to the nape of his neck, pulling him to her. The other, under his arm, splayed at his back. Her fingers move softly through his hair, and she hugs him close, holds him tight.

Every inch of him burns where she touches him. He has long been starved, void of gentle touch, wanting of kindness, and he knows this is what he’s yearned for but it’s so much, too much. Drowning in what he’s needed, an anchor struggling to stay afloat. “Fenris,” she says, “I’m here.” Stiff shoulders ease. Raising his hands so slowly, wrapping his arms around her. An exhale. Closing his eyes as he buries his face in the crook of her neck.

He allows himself the luxury of it. There have been so many hands on him, hands that believed they had the right to touch him. The trespass of it. The denial of him. Hawke is different. Hawke is change. Banishing his anger, his anguish, his grief, with this touch, so unlike any other he’s experienced. He allows himself to hold, to be held. To linger in this embrace, for his hands to shake at her back. A shuddering inhale. The low exhale. She doesn’t let go.

He doesn’t remember the last time he was hugged.

He thinks this might be the first.       


	243. For Ferelden (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I know I ask all the time for prompts but its because you're amazing Life or Death! Zev/Warden?

The gates of the city tremble under the weight of the ogre’s fists. They watch wood quake, hinges shake. It will splinter soon enough, and the Darkspawn will spread through. They’ve already infested other parts of the city. Fallen walls, burning homes. They wait in the courtyard, standing at the head of the troops she has assembled. “This waiting might kill me before the Darkspawn do,” he tells her. She snorts tepid amusement.

“You’re so sure it’s going to be one or the other?” she asks.

“Of course! They do not call it a Horde for unrelated reasons,” he says. Looking over his shoulder, at the soldiers they’ve collected. They’re spread thin. The Darkspawn won’t be.

“Well I’m going live,” she says, “There’s a warm bed calling my name and I don’t plan on turning down that invitation. After all, I’ve lived through worse.”

“Worse, truly?”

“Yes,” she says as she looks at Zevran, “the Crows sent their best assassin after me and he couldn’t even land a hit on me. Darkspawn are going to be nothing after that.” Their attention is turned to splintering wood. Archers behind them raise their bows, fire into the hole. The Darkspawn they cut down are replaced by others, and more after them, an endless marching.

“ _Mi amora_ , should we not –” She reaches out, one hand squeezing his cheeks together, and plants the kiss fiercely on his lips.

“Live, Zevran. I intended to have you on that bed after,” she says. He had pledged an oath of loyalty to her once. Her man, without reservation. Until she chose to release him from her service. He knows that day will never come. It’s more than that, now.

“Yes, my Warden,” he says. He’s never once let her down. She smiles as she draws the sword from her belt. Steadying her shield as an ogre roars, pointing her blade. Darkspawn spill through the gates, over the broken pieces.

She turns to her army, raises her sword into the air. “For Ferelden!” A rallying cry, and the horde crashes into Denerim’s defenders. 


	244. Near Thing (Varric x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: First kiss/ confessing feelings kiss Hawke and Varric please? I'll forever be bitter about no Varric romance.

She wakes slowly. Blinking in the bright light, the open windows, the midday sun. The pain sears through her, some scalding fire in her bones, the fist of it in the very center of her. She flattens a hand over her belly, and someone’s changed her bandages. She’s been slipping in and out of consciousness for days now, dimly aware of goings on. She looks at the corner of the room, and yes, the one constant. Varric, leaning back in the chair, a book in his hands and glasses hanging at the edge of his nose. Lost in it, absorbed in it, and she smiles at the sight of it. “I like your scholarly look,” she says hoarsely.

His eyes flick upwards, and he takes his feet off the stool. Marking his page as he closes the book, slides it onto the table beside him. The glasses go next, and he folds them so neatly, rests them over the book. Hawke sits up with a wince and a groan, teeth clenched. Varric up quicker than she could have imagined, at her side, arranging her pillows for her to make it easier. He takes the glass of water from the bedside table, passes it to her. She takes it gratefully, gulps down what’s there before passing it back. “How long have you been watching over me?” she asks. He chooses not to answer as he sits on the edge of the bed.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. There’s a seriousness in him that she’s seen very few times before. It doesn’t have the same anger as when they were in the Deep Roads, after Bartrand sealed the door behind them. Nor does it have the same kind of sorrow, when they found Leandra in those tunnels. This look is worry, concern, a knot between his brows that refuses to leave. She puts a hand over her belly once again, and gives him a reassuring smile.

“Better than I should, thanks to Anders. It was a near thing,” she says. Somehow, his frown only grows. He reaches out so gently, so carefully, places her hand in his. Palm against palm, and he’s putting his other hand over hers, cupping it, thumb running over her knuckles.

“More than a near thing,” he says, “you scared the shit out of me, Birdie.”

“Next time I plan on taking a sword right through the middle, I’ll let you know ahead of time so you can look away first,” she says. He doesn’t laugh like she thought he might, doesn’t even crack a smile. He swallows, gathering his words, looking everywhere but her face, looking at their hands clasped together so.

“We weren’t sure you were ever going to wake up, let alone make it through that night. All I could think about the entire time was all the things I haven’t said to you yet,” he tells her.

“Like what?” Hawke asks softly.

“Like how even though I know you’re always going be reckless as shit, that you’re always going to scare me half to death, I don’t want to be anywhere else but at your side. I love you,” Varric says, patting her hand, as he finally looks up, smiles at her. “You don’t have to –”

“Varric.” She doesn’t care how much it hurts. She reaches out with her free hand, a soft touch at his cheek, before moving to the nape of his neck. Pulling him towards her, moving forward to meet him, crushing the kiss against his lips. They part slowly, looking at each other, forehead pressed against forehead. A long moment of silence broken only by their breathing, unable to look anywhere but at each other. The second kiss is softer, sweeter, and Varric moves to cup her face in his hands.


	245. Relief (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a friend

Soot and ash, smoke and fire. Confusion in the chaos, and a soldier is dragging another to some abandoned corner, but the Darkspawn still follow. Sweat on his back, his brow, his palms, daggers held tightly in his hands. Chasing after them, fighting for their escape. That soldier stands beside him, desperate to protect someone who’s already dead. Soon enough, that soldier dies too. It feels hopeless, but Zevran knows – just a little longer. Hold on just a little longer, keep them fighting a little longer, live a little longer and the Archdemon will die. Zevran knows.

The screaming, the crying, the clash of metal. Met by shrieks, unnatural roars, and the endless assault of the horde. An arrow whizzes by his ear, and he turns, sees the archers on the roofs. An ogre makes known its displeasure, battering fists at a nearby wall, picking up a large stone from the rubble. The archers scatter as it’s easily tossed towards them. Another building burns, and Denerim weeps at the destruction. Homes are lost, families scattered. He pulls a dagger free from the back of a genlock, and moves forward. Shields shatter, ground littered with bloodied swords. The bodies line the streets, and he knows they can’t last much longer.

It doesn’t matter.

Heads turn as the beam ignites, into a red-tinged sky. It splits clouds, light spilling over the edges of the tower. For the first time, the Darkspawn feel fear. The power of it whispers through the city, a great voice that begs for no mercy. Zevran begins to smile. He’s done it. The soldiers cheer at the sight of it, a great laughter that mocks the retreating horde. The weight of exhaustion lifted by the sheer magnitude of relief, the reality that it’s over. It’s finally all over. The power booms, the beam falters, and the explosion of the tower rocks the city.

The others are still cheering. Zevran’s smile falters, fades, slips into horror. Ears flat, wide eyes looking upwards, and _Rémi_. Rémi is still there. Time stops, slows on a single heartbeat. It claps back in a panic, a wild quickening, and the daggers fall from his grasp. The first steps are slow, hastens into a run. The air burns in his lungs. His muscles ache with the exhaustion of battle, and just a little longer. Hold on just a little longer, keep running a little longer, live a little longer and he needs to find him. Making his way through broken Denrim, over fallen building, burning bridge. Towards that tower, through splintered doors.

He pushes himself up the stairs, from one desperate step to the next. Zevran suddenly stops, mid-step. _Rémi_. Leaning against the wall, limply making his way down. An arm wrapped around himself, a hand at his side, blood dripping through the space of his fingertips. Zevran opens his arms, and Rémi walks himself into them, his head dropping to rest on his shoulder. Zevran’s hands tremble at his back, breathe in the scent of sweat and smoke, the harsher iron and thunder underneath. Zevran’s eyes are still wide, his heart still hammering, unable to comprehend the warmth in this embrace. “We did it,” Rémi says weakly.

It’s the sound of his voice that does him in. Zevran gasps, a shuddering exhale, scrambles to hold him tightly. On that narrow step together, crushing them against each other, a shaking hand against the back of his head, almost sobs with the relief of it. He’s alive, and he’s hugging him back. Rémi sags in his arms, and they sink to sit on the step together. Parting slowly, only for Zevran to put a hand against his cheek. Pressing forehead against forehead and they quietly laugh with the relief of it. His thumb wears a gentle circle against his cheekbones. “You frightened me half to death, _mi amor_ ,” Zevran tells him. “Never do that again.”

Rémi allows himself to sink back into Zevran’s arms. His head against his chest, cradled tightly, safely. “I promise,” he murmurs, closing his eyes. Zevran’s fingers thread through his hair, a kiss to the crown of his head. He still trembles with the relief of the living. _Rémi_. To have, to hold, to never let go.


	246. Bauble (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a friend

They keep him busy with a bauble. Some bright liquid, trapped in a bottle. Turning it over in tiny hands, watching the way the potion shimmers, the captured bit of sun. Affectionately, they call him a crow. So concerned with shining things, little treasures, and he’d keep a hoard if he could. Rémi watches the enchanters at their work, eyes wide on the amulet, the spell they’re weaving upon it. Gold and glitter, little crow.

The apprentice in the bed next to him speaks to him at midnight. “They’ll take me for my harrowing soon,” he whispers, “I know it.” Reaching into his pillow, pulling free the pearl earring. “It’s the only thing I have left of home. I don’t want them to take when they move me to the mages quarters.” Passing it to him, placing it in the palm of his hand. They come to take him to his harrowing the next night. Rémi keeps it safe, and waits for him to reappear in new robes. He never does. Rémi buries the earring in the soft mud by the cliff.

One of the junior enchanters shows him her new quill. It sparkles in the sunlight, as she moves her fingers over it. “Isn’t it pretty?” she asks him. It is. Multi-colored bright, a rare thing in the dull drab grey of the Circle. Rémi thinks the quill will see much use. It would have. Giving into the whispers that speak to her at night, and the quill is stained with blackened blood, after the Templars find out. He tries to wash it out, but the color fades, gentle threads torn out. Ruined.  

Jowan shows him a ring. “I traded it with one of the Templars,” he says, “I’m going to give it to Lily.” Gold and unblemished, a perfect circle. He never gets the chance. Standing in the aftermath of it all, blood against the tiles, Templars in their armor shouting over his fate. Duncan steps forward, speaks on his behalf. He wears an earring, some simple thing, and means to take Rémi away from all he’s ever known. He has no choice. Duncan promises to stay by his side. He doesn’t keep that promise.

Crow, and another Crow offers him something bright. The earring, in the palm of his hand, holding it out to Rémi. “It’s meant a lot to me, but so have… so has what you’ve done. Please, take it,” Zevran says. Every other bauble he’s taken without question. This one, he finds he cannot. Question after question, and Zevran closes his fist around it. “We pick up every other bit of treasure we come across, but not this. You don’t want the earring? You don’t get the earring. Very simple.” It’s not the earring. Rémi knows there’s more, wants more, needs Zevran to say it.

Sitting on the bed by the fire, heads close together. Quiet, in the eve of battle. “I still have the earring,” Zevran whispers to him. Hand in hand, and Zevran holds it out. Glittering, in the firelight. “I – I would like to give it to you. As a token of my affection. Will you take it?”

The name written in his heart hangs from his ear. A bauble. A subtle declaration, shining bright.


	247. Favor (Solas x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: A prompt from that (purple prose) Sappho list - "show me the favor of your eyes" for Solavellan, perhaps? I've not read much you've written for Solas, and I'm curious.

She looked upon him kindly, once. Standing in Haven, breath fogging in air as she speaks, as she declares that no one would harm him. Such confidence in her words, such sincerity. “How would you stop them?” he asks.

“However I had to,” she tells him. Amused, perhaps even taken aback, he smiles and thanks her. This shadow of an elf, the smallest spark of the People, so bright and full of purpose. As Solas lies in dreaming sleep, Wisdom finds him.

“Do you feel guilt for what you’ve done to her?” He looks at his own, unblemished, palm, and wonders.

She looked upon him fondly, once. Shoulder against shoulder as they lean over the book together, his finger following the words on the page. She listens attentively to every word as he translates the language her people have forgotten. Watching him, more than she watches him track the letters. Something soft there, something that turns the heart in his chest.

“You are not what I expected,” he tells her.

“What did you expect?” she asks. He sees her less as a shade, more as – Solas turns in his bed, and Fear plagues him.

“Do you think she’ll understand?” He wears a mask here, some face not his own, a name he hasn’t shouldered in so long. He dreads putting on the mantle once again.

She looked upon him sadly, once. “Solas, don’t leave me. Not now,” she says, stepping forward, and he can only step back. His instant reflex, the action he wants to take, is to craft the barrier. Shield himself from his sorrow. He would rather anger, he would suffer rage. This is pain he cannot heal, more pain he has caused her, and he can only flee.

They walk through a field and Compassion asks him, “but then you turned away. Why?” He watches her back as he says the words. Shoulders that instantly stiffen, ears that twitch at the sound.

“I had no choice,” Solas tells him. She looks over her shoulder, finds him.

She looks upon him here, now, some unreadable expression on her face, in her eyes. It is this unknowable look that makes him want to fall to his knees, beg her forgiveness, and tell her everything, spill every secret. It is this unknowable look that screams at him not to cause her any more pain. It is this unknowable look that keeps him silent.


	248. Soft (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I'd love to see some little work with F!Hawke and Fenris, with him learning that he doesn't need to be submissive all the time by reflex, now that he's a free man, can be a romantically based thing or just in regard to his every day life, up to you. Love your work!!

She turns the peach in her hands, smiles at the feel of it. Passing over the coin as she raises it to her lips, inhales deeply before she bites down. Wiping away the juice that dripples down her chin with the back of her hand, holding out the peach to him. “Want a bite?” He raises his eyebrows at it as they walk through the market, and Fenris shakes his head. Hawke shrugs, easy going always, takes another bite. “Not as good as the ones in Ferelden anyway,” she says.

“You mention often how many things were better in Ferelden,” he says, “and you still have no desire to return there?”

“You’ve asked me this before,” she says.

“Years ago. Feelings change,” he tells her. She thinks for a moment, concedes agreement, and nods. Turning the peach in her hand, taking another bite.

“I think, even more now than when you first asked me, I don’t want to go back. I’ve built a life here.” She tosses the core of the peach into the nearby garbage bin. Clasping her hands behind her back, walking very near him, and shoulder against shoulder. “I’ve made good friends,” she says, putting a hand on his back, “and I have the estate now. I don’t know who I’d be in Lothering anymore.”

“You couldn’t just be Hawke?” he asks. Her hand moves, back to herself.

“If you went back to Tevinter, would you be the same Fenris who had left it?”

“I –” he pauses, looking down at their feet as they walk. Other mill around them, create a space for them to walk. He has been in the city long enough that hardly any pass him second glances, more directed to a newly minted Hawke now. He remembers the streets of Minrathous. Head bowed, chain around his neck, stare at his feet, _stare at his feet_ , never look up, but know that they’re all staring, never look up. He raises his head, looks at her. “I do not know.”

Hawke stops, puts a hand on her arm. “What’s one thing you want? Not a goal, just a want. Something material,” she says. He stops with her as he thinks, the anxiety rising in his chest as he struggles to think of something. “It can be anything. Don’t think about it too much.”

“Then – a blanket. Something… soft.” She grins, puts her hands in his. Holding him tightly, pulling him through the streets, leading him to a store at the very corner. The bell chimes as it opens. She lets go of his hand to lean over the counter, excitement in her eyes.

“Your finest, softest blanket, if you will,” she tells the shopkeeper.

“Hawke –” He goes silent as she looks over her shoulder at him, gives a pleased huff. The shop keep places it in her arms. She closes the distance between them, stands in front of Fenris, presents it to him.

“You wanted this, and you can have it. This is your life, the one you’ve made for yourself. You don’t have to ever think about going back. You can have what you want right here, right now, in Kirkwall,” she tells him. He takes the blanket from her slowly. Some deeply red thing, a luxury. Silky soft underneath his fingertips, warm in his arms. A far cry from the threadbare, itching, wool, thing he has currently over his bed. This blanket is decadence, selfishness. She smiles as she watches him.

“I can’t…”

“You can. I’ll pay for it now, and you can pay me back by coming on jobs with me. You’ve earned this, Fenris,” she says. He looks her in the eyes, holds her gaze, and does not drop it. His hands slowly tighten around the blanket.

“Then, thank you, Hawke,” he says. She nods, her hand over his, thumb brushing over his knuckles.


	249. Quick Walk (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: From the kissing prompts.... can I ask for a first kiss in the rain for FenHawke? \u_u/

They press themselves back against the bark of the tree. Her fingers play with a loose piece, rough against her skin. The lightning splits the sky, the thunder follows it quickly. He has his arms crossed. “Only a quick walk,” he says mockingly, “the rain won’t come until evening.” She chuckles to herself as she casts a look at him, and he pretends not to see it. The smile quirks at the edge of his lips anyway. They’re both soaked, through and through. Grey clouds had finally shuddered with the heavy rain which forced them into finding shelter.

It drops through the leaves, rain drops splattering against them occasionally. The water is cool in his air, the wind making goosebumps rise on her skin. As her teeth begin to shatter, she cups her hands together. Forcing warmth from nothing, trying to weave it into her bones. “Cold?” she asks him. He nods slightly, and she instantly moves closer to him. Practically pressing herself against him, holding out one of her hands. He takes it, and the magic moves quickly through him. It’s not unpleasant, and his ears twitch at how soft her hands are.

“Despite the rain, I’m glad we did this,” she says, “I wouldn’t want to be stuck here with anyone else.” There’s a madness in him, some wild desire that possesses him. He pulls her in with that hand, puts hands on her shoulders. Startled, she stops the flow of her magic. His touch moves over her neck, fingertips touching against her nape, going to cup her face in his hands.

Water drops form in the locks of his hair, fall onto her cheek. Darkly-lidded eyes, nose touching against nose, and they look at each other for a moment. Her hands settle on his arms, watches the rain drop fall from his lashes. “Fen…” a broken inhale of his name, moving into a murmur, as he plants the kiss fiercely, deeply. Still for only a moment, she soon returns the kiss. His palms are so warm, the rain so cold, but all she feels is the heat of his mouth against hers.

He rips himself away from her in an instant, looking at her with wide eyes. “Hawke, I –” Her hand at the back of his neck, pulling him back to her. Leaning her body into him, and he wraps an arm around her waist. There’s a moan in this kiss, low and labored, as he holds her close against him. His hands move on her back, slide into her hair slowly as she wraps her arms around his neck. “Hawke,” a hoarse and desperate whisper, as they shift, collide once again.

Rain falls through the branches, the canopy of leaves. She feels it on her skin. He feels only her.


	250. First (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 24 ( i never want you to think you're anything less than my top priority ) zevwarden!

They speak quietly, over candlelight. Sitting across from each other, knee against knee, leaning forward, and heads very close together. Hand in hand, tracing touch over knuckles. “We survived the trials together. In truth, were in not for Taliesen, I do not think I would have bothered even trying to survive. He was my only friend, and in truth, occasionally my lover. In a den of liars, we trusted only each other,” he tells her. She holds him tighter, but his hands still tremble.

“I should have expected that they would send him,” Zevran says, gives a hollow laugh, “foolish of me to hope that they would not.” He rests his forehead against hers, and sighs.

“Do you think we could have found another way?” she asks him quietly. A small shake of his head.

“Taliesen was always quite dedicated to the Crows. He would not leave them for anything, least of all me,” he says.

“I’m sorry you had to kill him,” she tells him.

“I am not.” Lifting one hand, brushing against her cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “He threatened you, and you are all that matters to me now.” His hand falls back down to hers, raises it to his lips. “ _Mi amor_.”


	251. Safety Net (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Fluff, 3, Zevran and M!Amell? Pretty please? I love the way you write everyone (especially Zevran!) it's so full of nuance :3 3 - “I just feel safe with you. Like nothing bad can happen.”

To look over the short wall they lean against is to stare down into an abyss. Lava boiling at the bottom, filling all of Orzammar with its heat and light. Different quarters cut into stone, and them, at the very top. Bhelen keeps them waiting, as though he’s trying to prove some kind of point. Perhaps he knows that the Warden has no choice but to bend to his whims, having cast his line to any who might honor the treaties to the Wardens. Leliana has long wandered off, Alistair with her, seeking to enjoy all that Orzammar has to offer. Amell has stayed behind, and Zevran stays with him.

It starts with a head on his shoulder. Arms crossed, eyes closed, and Zevran says nothing about the hair that tickles against his cheek. Sitting on cold cobblestone together, and he watches as dwarves walk by them, cast curious glances at the outsiders to their city. “Oh?” A hand on his arm, moving it out of his way, and Amell puts his head on his lap. “What’s this?” Amell makes himself comfortable, closing his eyes. His hands are still around Zevran’s wrist, keeping his hand against his chest. Underneath his palm, the steady beat of Amell’s heart.

“I barely got any sleep last night,” Amell tells him. “This wait is going to kill me.” Zevran chuckles.

“You are quite defenseless like this,” he says. Staff lying beside him, knees bent. Robes bunched together for warmth, and his eyes still haven’t opened. “What if more of the Harrowmont supporters come to speak to you about their displeasure?”

“Is fine. I’m safe with you,” he says. His voice is already lowered, the slow slur of sleep.

“It is not so long ago I made an attempt on your life. Are you quite certain you are safe?” Zevran asks him.

“At least I’ll be asleep. Make it quick,” Amell mumbles. Zevran chuckles to himself, feels the grip around his wrist go lax. His lips part as the dreaming takes him, and Zevran listens to the sound of his soft inhale, steady exhale. Looking down at him, and a stray lock of hair brushes against him. He pays it no mind. He’s too busy looking at long dark lashes, the vulnerable figure asleep in his lap. Zevran moves his hand from Amell’s chest. Palm against his face, a thumb that brushes over his cheek.

“Sleep well, my Warden,” he tells him quietly, fondly.


	252. Mire (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hi! Could you do "kiss by a campfire" for pavellan please?

“This is,” he says, “quite possibly the most miserable place you could have taken me.” Mahanon laughs, something bright in the endless dark. Making their way through the muck of the Mire, mud on their boots, rain like mist swirling around them.

“I’m inclined to agree. It is not… ideal,” Cassandra says.

“Hey Seeker, feel like carrying me? I might drown otherwise,” Varric says, taking careful steps not to fall into the bog.

“I think not,” she says, shaking her head.

“If anyone’s going to be carried, it’s going to be me,” Dorian says.

“It’s not that bad,” Mahanon says, the laughter still on his lips, “besides, the camp is just up ahead.” Not even the camp is safe from the worst of it – the wood soaked to the core, grimy wet wherever they step. It takes Dorian a few persistent minutes to light the fire, a roaring thing that illuminates the gloom. He stands very near to his great accomplishment, hands out, desperate for warmth.

“We’ll take shelter here for the night, and in the morning we can head to the castle,” Mahanon says, looking over at the shape in the distance, the castle hidden in the fog. Cassandra and Varric set up the tents in the slight dent in the rocks, the only protection from the seemingly endless mist. Mahanon stands beside Dorian.

“I don’t know how we’re going to get any sleep in this,” Dorian says to him, “I can almost feel the congestion I’m going to wake up with.” Mahanon hides his smile with his hand, trying to rub it away. He can’t hide the dimples in his cheeks, the bright of his eyes.

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he says.

“Oh, really? And just how are you going to do that?” Mahanon steps closer to him, shoulder against shoulder, before turning to face him completely. Reaching out with a hand, pulling Dorian by the earlobe to him. He can almost taste the laughter on his lips, the amusement on his tongue.

“Well,” Dorian says slowly as they part, “it’s a start.” With a loud snort, Mahanon flings his arms around Dorian’s shoulder, and this kiss is fiercer, deeper, and they sway from the force of it. Dorian wraps his arms around his waist, and Mahanon is threading a hand through his hair. Pulling away slightly, pressing forehead against forehead.

“Just wait ‘til we get back to Skyhold,” Mahanon says, twirling a lock of hair between his fingers.

“Oh you are simply insufferable,” Dorian tells him.

“I have to give you something to look forward to.”

“I’m already looking forward to being out of this place! I don’t need any more motivation than that!” Mahanon’s laughter rings around the area, a fading echo, as Dorian groans and rests his head on his shoulder.


	253. Ar Lath (Dorian x M!Inquisitor) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hi again! Sorry i already sent an ask but could you also write the smut prompt " dont smile at me like that. You know it drives me crazy" for pavellan pretty please?

He goes to the library first, as always. Between the bookshelves, in that darker corner, an arm wrapped around his waist. Pressed tight against him, a hand on his shoulder, the nape of his neck, trailing kisses along the line of his jaw. With the hand not around his waist, Dorian reaches up to catch Mahanon’s face, holding him still, by the chin. Looking at him, and Mahanon is looking back, bright eyed, tongue traveling across his attention-bruised lips. “I’ve missed you,” Dorian tells him. The grin spreads instantly across his face, and Mahanon leans into his hand. Pulling his face towards his, planting the kiss against his lips.

“Stop smiling,” Dorian says, “I can’t kiss you properly.”

“Let’s go to my room,” Mahanon says, touch traveling down Dorian’s back. Biting his bottom lip as he tries to contain his smile, looking up at him through long lashes, the hint of a blush on his cheeks. Hands over his hips, slipping downwards, and back up again, as though he can’t get enough. “Together. Let’s go now.” Leaning forward, hand on his shoulder, a nipping bite against his neck.

“Someone might see us,” Dorian says, as he feels his mouth wrap around his earlobe.

“I don’t care,” he says, breath light against the shell of his ear.

“You should,” Dorian tells him. Mahanon stands on the flat of his feet, knocks his forehead gently against his. Looking at him seriously, holding his face in his hands.

“You shouldn’t.”

“Someone will say something,” he says. Another quirk of a smile, as Mahanon wraps an arm around his shoulders. A soft look, holding his gaze to looking at his lips, back to him. It betrays his intentions, but the kiss is not unwelcome. Gently given, heating slowly, as Mahanon opens his mouth to him. A groaning inhale as he presses into him, runs his fingers through his hair.

“Let them,” Mahanon says, “I’d be upset if they didn’t talk about us.” At Dorian’s eye roll, mild sound of the slightest annoyance, he breaks into a wide grin once again. So pleased with himself, and Maker, the dimples in his cheeks. The way the smile is evident in every inch of him, the small wiggle as he moves himself closer.

“Don’t smile at me like that,” Dorian says, voice low, the growl at the end of every word, “you know it drives me crazy.” Mahanon’s hands twist into his, and he tugs Dorian along with him. Down the library steps, through the rotunda. He holds him tight as they make their way across the Great Hall, looking over his shoulder to smile reassuringly at Dorian. Pushing open the door to the stairs, slamming it shut behind him. Mahanon presses Dorian against the door, fingers working at the straps of his clothes.

Dorian pushes back, a touch at the back of his neck, loose strands of hair from Mahanon’s messy bun tickling over the back of his hand. Tongue against tongue, and Dorian is walking him to the stairs. The back of his heels against one step, and up another, and one of Dorian’s belts hit the floor. Mahanon’s tunic. A boot slipped off at one step, Dorian’s tunic at another. Another boot, two more, and Mahanon’s trousers are halfway down his ass by the time they stumble through the door to his room, tangled up together. Tripping, falling, and ripping them off completely as Dorian immediately dives to run his tongue along the bone of his chest, making his own marks against the _vallaslin_ , the green in his skin.

Mahanon’s legs wrap around his waist, pull him closer, into the kiss. Opening his mouth to him, tongue against tongue as his fingers slip into his waistband, pull his trousers down with a sense of desperation. Kneeling between his legs, and he almost looks bereft when Dorian breaks the kiss, his mouth still trying to follow his, but Dorian’s hands are on his body and oh – he allows himself to lie back against the cold floor, biting his knuckles, as touch moves over rib and hip. The bruises from the battles he’s fought in his absence fade away, the magic in Dorian’s palms.

Resting his weight carefully on top of him as Mahanon puts ankle against ankle, and Dorian plucks the tie from his hair. Long locks slip through his fingers, as he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, taking advantage of the space. Gripping his thigh tightly, and Mahanon’s arms are linked around Dorian’s neck. “Fuck me,” Mahanon groans against his mouth.

“Oil first,” Dorian breathes in between kisses.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” Mahanon repeats, harder, more aggressively, grinding his hips upwards against his. Dorian mimics earlier, holding his chin in a stiff hand, the other still holding Mahanon’s thigh.

“Oil first,” he says. The slightest pout before Mahanon is squirming out of his grasp, on his hands and knees towards the bedside table. Throwing open the drawer, tossing the small vial at Dorian. He catches it deftly as Mahanon stays on his knees, crosses his arms over the bed and sticks out his ass.

“So impatient,” Dorian says as he pulls the stopper free. Taking the time first to run fingertips down the ridges of Mahanon’s spine, watching the way goosebumps follow his touch. He warms the oil with barely a second thought, presses a kiss to Mahanon’s shoulder blades as he leans over him. His hand moves, palm flat against Mahanon’s stomach, and traveling lower. Wrapping around the base of his cock at the same time as oil slick fingers press against his entrance.

“Can you blame me?” Mahanon asks, his eyelashes fluttering as he struggles to contain a moan of delight. “I haven’t seen you in weeks. I’ve done nothing but think of you while I was gone. I want you.” Hair over his shoulders, long down his back, and Mahanon turns his head slightly to look at him.  “I _need_ you.” Dorian’s own cock twitches at the unconcealed desire in Mahanon’s gaze, his voice. His fists clench in the bedsheets and that moan finally rips free as Dorian’s finger slips inside him. Skin pressed against skin and he’s still stroking his cock, a steady rhythm, pre-cum gently dripping against the floor.

“You are just, the worst,” Dorian groans, his head dropping against Mahanon’s back as he slowly works at him. Listening to the small chuckle as Mahanon untangles one of his hands, moving back between them, finding the v of Dorian’s hips, finger stroking at the sensitive spot underneath the head of Dorian’s cock. Wrapping his hand around him, matching rhythm, stroking with a turn of his wrist, the right pressure he knows makes Dorian squirm. Gasping as another finger fits inside him, and oh the minutes are torture until a third joins it.

“I’m ready,” Mahanon insists.

“I’ll tell you when you’re ready,” Dorian tells him. Curling his finger to that spot, watching the way Mahanon shudders, his hand losing the rhythm mid-stroke, moving back to clench the bed sheets. Kneeling between Mahanon’s legs, and he moves to hold his hips tightly. Mahanon squirms underneath him, far too eager, the subtle grind his ass backwards, against Dorian’s cock. Reaching for the vial again, coating his cock in the rest of it.

“ _Venhedis_ ,” Dorian swears as he slowly pushes his cock inside him, as Mahanon pushes himself away from the bed, arcing against Dorian. Hands moving from his hips, over his body, a hand wrapping around his throat as Mahanon tilts his head back. Burying himself inside to the hilt, hugging, holding, Mahanon tightly in his grasp. Pulling out, thrusting back inside, savoring Mahanon’s gasp. Biting the soft flesh in the crook of his neck, keeping his mouth there as he begins to fuck him properly.

There’s something in the heat of him. This contact, more than any other. To see him is always a comfort. To hold him, a pleasure. To fuck him, this vulnerable act, some raw need, aching in the want to fuck him _more_ , to never let go. Joined in this way, desperate relief to have him, to know him, to love him. He holds him tighter, loves him harder.

“ _Ar lath_ ,” Mahanon moans, repeats it until the words are a whispered murmur, fading into nothing, “ _ar lath, ar lath, ar lath ma_.” In hoarse breath, this strangled tongue, Dorian knows he feels the same way, thoughts that match his own. Under Dorian’s thumb, the hand still around his throat, he feels him swallow. Reaching behind him, and Mahanon’s hand tangles in his hair, the other hand still pressed tightly against the bed. Another bite to the crook of his neck, a kiss, the bite, another kiss. Peppering them along any bit of skin in easy reach.

“I love you too.” Resting his head on his shoulder. “I love you so much.” Mahanon’s only reply is a shuddering groan as he trembles in Dorian’s arms, cock pulsing as he spills his seed against the bed, on the floor. Lips parting, breathing coming quicker now, eyes squeezed closed as he loses himself in the feeling of him, warm and tight and –

“Dorian,” Mahanon calls his name, and unravels him completely.


	254. Training (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: can I request Zevwardan, #12 from the angst list? Love you! 12 - “Who did this? Who hurt you?”

He will never understand why she chooses to go barefoot. The moment they set up camp, she’s pulling off her boots, socks, standing in grass. It’s as though she doesn’t feel the rocks, the small sticks, all the pines and aches of the forest floor. She fetches firewood without complaint, stands in mud and says nothing. It’s the same for the rest of her armor. Deposited neatly at her tent, lounging in but a tunic and trousers. If someone were to chance upon their camp – Zevran shakes his head. It is an unnecessary gamble.

“I’m used to it,” she tells him when he asks. “I never wore armor when I was with my clan.”

“But you are no longer with your clan. Surely you can understand why it would be safer,” he says.

“You sound like Alistair.”

“You wound me.” She breathes out amusement, walks towards him and holds out her hand. Raising an eyebrow, he lets his hand rest in hers. She immediately turns it over, works at the straps of his gauntlets. Deft hands, nimble fingers, and she’s so used to doing this in the dark. A strange thing to see the straps with the sun overhead, easier to undo.

“Even if someone finds the camp, you have all of us to protect you. You don’t need to rely on just your armor or your weapons anymore,” she says.

“Numbers are well and good, until we are ambushed without warning,” he says.

“We’ve faced worse situations,” she says, beginning to let him go. It takes a second glance.  A furrowed brow, and she’s reaching out again, wrapping her hand around his wrist. Pulling him towards her, and he steps forward without resistance. Slowing unwrapping her grip, but still holding his wrist, and her other hand traces the scars that circle his skin. The frown deepens. They are so faded now, and he wonders at the fact that she saw them at all. Curse the shining sun, the clarity of day.

“Who did this to you?” she asks, and she’s still looking at his wrist, touch light over the subtle white lines that mar him. “Who hurt you?” She finally looks up at him, and that frown breaks for a moment. The anger is still there, of course. Anger on his behalf.  

“The training the Crows give their recruits truly is the best.” She breathes out slowly, wraps her hand back around his wrist.

“When this is done, if you choose to go after them, I’m coming with you.” Truly, his eyebrows could not go higher and for a moment, he’s possessed by a wild urge to laugh. Then, to look at her again. The fury, the sincerity. She’s never lied to him before, has no reason to lie about this.

“I will think on it, Warden,” is all he can tell her.  


	255. Hair (Leliana x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: perhaps something with Leliana and a female Mahariel warden? Love the way you write Lisa!

“It’s terrible,” she says.

“It’s lovely,” Leliana instantly protests, a hand reaching up to protectively touch the single messy braid that’s been weaved into her hair. Smiling fondly as she holds it, sways slightly from side to side before she leans forward. “Would you like me to do your hair?” All of it pulled back into a single, huge, knot at the back of her head and Mahariel haphazardly taps it.

“If you think you can handle it,” she says. Leliana instantly claps her hands together, beams happily. Leading Mahariel to sit on the grass, and she grabs her bag and sits on the makeshift stool behind her. Humming as she searches through the bag, pulls free the comb. Undoing the tie, letting it rest on her knee.

Mahariel sits cross-legged, back straight, her hands wrapped around her ankles. She’s prepared for it to hurt. It has every other time. Leliana starts with massaging fingertips against Mahariel’s scalp. It’s lulling, calm, and she closes her eyes. She doesn’t know what kind of magic Leliana has, but her first brush is gentle, not painful, and so is the second, and after that and after that. All the while she continues to hum, and that humming soon moves into singing. Songs of daring adventures, sweet lullabies that follow.

Mahariel’s shoulders relax, her back slowly hunches, and she leans against Leliana’s legs. Her eyes are still closed, listening to the sound of her voice. She hasn’t stopped smiling since the singing started. She could almost fall asleep this way, but Leliana is proclaiming, “All finished!” so very proudly. She stands, and extends her hand to help Mahariel to her feet. Pleased pink on Leliana’s face as she threads her fingers through her hair. “I adore your curls,” she says. “Oh! Just one last thing, before I forget.”

Kneeling down, plucking the yellow flower from the grass. Tucking it behind her ear, nestled in those curls, and Leliana’s touch brushes against her cheeks. “Beautiful,” Leliana tells her. Cheeks red hot, Mahariel lets her head drop onto Leliana’s shoulders.

“So are you,” she mumbles. Leliana laughs brightly, wraps her arms around her.


	256. Myths (Solas x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I’d super love to see a little fic about pre-romance solavellan set after the destruction of haven, while lavellan is recovering from having to wander in the freezing cold and Solas is looking after her/pondering the mark or whatever. Love your work so much!

“May I see your hands?” He asks it so politely, so quietly, so calmly, despite the calm that she does not feel. Pulling herself from crossed arms, presenting still shaking hands. She’s shivering, despite the many blankets around her, and he kneels before her. Fingertips, at the back of her hand. Thumbs, gentle against her palm. “You are frightened?” His hands close around hers, and there’s magic at the edge. Something warm and soothing seeping into her skin, moving up her arms.

“Aren’t you?” she asks, a sarcastic guffaw following her words. “An ancient Darkspawn crawled out of a myth to kill me.”

“There are worse things in myths that could have come for you,” Solas says, looking up at her with a small smile.

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” she tells him. He chuckles slightly, gives her hands a small squeeze. Gesturing for her to lean back, open up her blankets slightly. They had forced her to change clothes. Her other ones were frozen through, wet and cold, stiff in the snow. He puts hands over her ribs, and the ache that had been pounding through her chest begins to disappear.

“You have, in the very least, survived your encounter with this ‘myth’. Others would not have fared so well. Now, you must be ready for the next time Corypheus chooses to come for you,” he says. Hands steadily moving down the curves of her, and the cold that had been curling in her lungs dissipates, breath coming easier now. He pulls her blankets around her, raises his hands to her cheeks. Her own hand curls into a fist.

“I may not have asked for the anchor,” she says, “but I won’t let Corypheus take it. He caught us unawares today. I’ll be ready next time.” Solas smiles, and he brings his hands back to himself.

“Good.”


	257. Before (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Ooooh, first time asking for a prompt! Maybe "No, I don’t want to say goodbye. Not now." for f!WardenxZevran, I love how you write Noya! And how fluffy you make angst :D

She wears no armor. Her arms are crossed. It’s as though she thinks that might protect her, shield her from something she doesn’t know how to put into words. Standing very near to Alistair, and he’s rubbing his forehead. He’s leaning down low, their heads close together, whispering in hushed but urgent tones. “We’ll discuss it in the morning,” she speaks it so fiercely. It’s the only part of their conversation Zevran can hear.

“I see that speaking to a more senior Warden such as Riordan did not make the looming battle less harrowing?” Zevran asks as he walks down the hallways towards them. They look up at the same time, the same empty expression on their faces. Alistair puts a hand on her shoulder. A single pat, before he leaves the way Zevran has come. It doesn’t escape his notice how Alistair does not meet his gaze, takes pains to look everywhere but him. Zevran lets him pass, turns his attention back towards Noya.

Her arms are crossed, closed, hands in a locked grip, fingers biting into skin. He stands before her, and they open. Her touch, on his arms, on his back, pulling him against her, a hand at the nape of his neck. She holds him tightly, hugs him closer, and squeezes him tight. He slowly returns it, lets his hands rest on her back. She’s breathing against the crook of his neck, a hand fisted into his tunic, against his back. She’s never held him this way, before. As though she couldn’t bear it to let go. The slightest tremble, in her embrace. The smallest hitch, in her inhale. “What is it?” he asks. “Tell me what is the matter and I will fix it for you.”

She wears no armor. Her arms are crossed around him. It’s as though she thinks they might protect them, shield them from something she doesn’t know how to put into words.

“Warden.” A quiet voice, behind them. “I do not wish to interrupt but I must speak with you. Most urgently,” Morrigan says.

Slow, to let her hold on him loosen. To let her feet fall flat against the floor, to allow her eyes to open. She puts a palm against his cheek, her forehead against his. A chaste kiss, against his lips, and she’s slipping from his grasp. Looking over her shoulder as she walks away with Morrigan, the briefest of glances as though she doesn’t want to leave. Doesn’t want to say goodbye. Alone, he puts fingertips against his lips. A frown, although he doesn’t know why.


	258. Coffee (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Fenris x F!Hawke, fashion model photoshoot modern au please? :D

She arrives late, because of course she does, two coffees in her hands. Standing beside the lights, watching as they finish his part. Moving from angle to angle, the constant shutter of the cameras, and he doesn’t look away except for the briefest moment when she arrives. Quickly looking back towards the camera, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees her grin. Of course she saw him look. It’s practically a guarantee that the photos will show it, now. He lets himself relax when the director calls for a break, walks towards her. Hawke instantly holds out one cup towards him.

“Just the way you like it. Boring,” she tells him as she takes a sip of her own.

“At least my coffee is not simply a way to guzzle sugar,” he says.

“An _acceptable_ way to guzzle sugar,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “You look fantastic, by the way.” The suit fits him well, at least. White, to match his hair, a darker button up underneath. The top few buttons undone, and she smiles as she reaches up to touch the collar. The assistant barely looks up from his clipboard as he walks towards them.

“There’s a dress waiting for you in the back, area B, and the only change for Fenris is that we’re ditching the jacket. The director might have more changes during the shoot, but that’s all for now,” he says as he flips over a page. Hawke takes one last gulp of her coffee.

“Time to go squeeze myself into a dress, I guess,” she says, as she makes her way towards the back, giving a slight wave to them as she goes. Fenris immediately shrugs out of the jacket, the assistant reaching out and taking it for him. He puts the cup on the table as he closes his eyes, rolls his shoulders. Raising his arms above his head, stretching out. It won’t take long for her to be ready. It never does. She was made for the cameras.

Once the director comes back, he moves quickly into action. Pulling Fenris back in front of the cameras, under the heat of the lights. Rubbing his chin as he looks him up and down, moves forward, undoes the buttons of his shirt. “Much better,” he says, pleased, waves Hawke over. Stepping forward, and Fenris can finally look at her. Red, stained across her lips. A flowing white dress, an open back. The split, in the dress, leg visible as she walks forward, high on her heels.

“You looked fantastic before, but this,” she raises her eyebrows at his open shirt, “is even better.” The dress ties around her neck, soft wisps of fabric down her back, between delicate shoulder blades. Standing very near him, close enough to see every detail in her makeup, those dark lashes, and brighter blue eyes.

The photographer is crouching down, aiming the camera upwards towards them. “Can you hold her? Make it look like you’re lovers.” Little do they know. Hawke and Fenris share a secret smile as she drapes arms over her shoulders, leans her hips against his. His hand travels down her back, fingertips over the spine of her, settles at the small of it, pulls her in. Reaching in between that slit, a hand wrapping around her thigh, pulling up her leg towards him.

“Would you like to go to dinner later?” he asks her.

“I’d love to,” she says. Laughing, smiling, the cameras flickering all about them.


	259. Faded For Him (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Kissing prompt: in the rain; relief; for fenris and male hawke. Fenris is ripping into the inquisition advisors, demanding what they're doing to get Hawke back from the fade when the inquisitor & party returns. Fenris spots Hawke among them.

A rift, where his heart should be. He had held the letter in his hands, read the words, and did not believe them. It was only days later, night after lonely night, when he began to truly realize that Hawke was gone. Sitting on the edge of their bed, feeling his chest cave in and the tears burst out. He had promised him once, that he would no longer be alone. It never once crossed his mind that Hawke might break that promise. He writes back. Letter after letter, demanding explanation, answers. None are ever satisfying. Perhaps they do not see, do not know, how much – Fenris decides to go to them himself.

They hold him in the courtyard, will not let him go further. His breath fogs in the early morning, the slightest rain, like mist, gently covering Skyhold. He remains, feet planted and arms crossed, waiting for the Inquisition to meet him. They send two faces he knows, one he does not. “Serrah Fenris,” she says, “we are doing everything we can.”

“That is not an answer,” he tells her. “Where is the Inquisitor?” It was their decision to leave him there. Varric had spoken of his own guilt, ink stained on the pages of the letter. The regret in asking Hawke to help, in knowing he would come. Fenris does not blame him.

“The Inquisitor is away on an important mission,” Cullen says. Fenris glares at him. As though there’s anything more important than getting Hawke back.  

“If you would like to stay until they return, a room can be arranged,” Leliana says. Their words serve no purpose. They aim to placate him. To delay. To turn him from this questioning path.

“You abandoned him! All of you! You left him in the Fade.” Coarse and rough, words that rip from his mouth, sour on his tongue, turn silent. Fenris shakes his head. “I will not accept it. Where is the Inquisitor?” Cold, on his face, his cheeks, and he can’t tell if it’s rain anymore. “I will go with them back into the Fade and correct the mistake that they made,” he says sharply.

Cullen opens his mouth to speak, and stops at the shouting on the battlements. Soldiers running across stone, moving to open the gates. More shouting, loud talking, shocked gasps. The doors rattle as they open.

Fenris looks over his shoulder, a quick and hurried glance, at this intrusion. Turning back to the others, and the realization of what he’s seen dawns slowly. He whirls to face them. The Inquisitor. Varric. Hawke, carried between two of them, an arm over either shoulder. His head bowed, his steps halted. He raises his head slowly, and their gaze meets. Fenris’s first step is slow. The next is without hesitation. Breaking into a sprint, racing toward him, and Hawke is doing the same, pushing away those who steady him. “Fenris,” and his voice cracks on the name, and they crash into each other.

Clutching one another, and all the words that Fenris might have said now knot together in his throat. Tangled up, almost choking, and it’s all he can do to hold him tighter. Hawke, always a steady rock, now shakes in his arms. Half sobbing out his name, “ _Fen_ ,” and rain drops, not just tears, cling to Hawke’s eyelashes. Crushing the kiss against his lips, a palm against his cheek, Hawke’s beard rough under his skin. Again and again, until it feels real. “I thought I’d never get out of there,” Hawke says hoarsely, “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I am here. I have you,” Fenris tells him. The knot between Hawke’s brows breaks, as though the weight of his words is too much to bear. His hand fists in Fenris’s cloak, his head buried in the crook of his neck. Fenris’s hands are flat against his back, feeling the way Hawke inhales, exhales, breathes, lives, stands before him, held in his arms, is real, is his.


	260. Senseless (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 12 for zevwarden? “I really don’t care. You still look hot and I’m trying not to kiss you senseless right now.”

The last time she stood in this court, it was to declare the innocence of the Wardens. Spilling blood for the good of Ferelden, the spear in her hands and Loghain on his knees. Zevran supposes it’s why she agreed so easily to it, the dress. After all, it was Anora who asked her to wear it. She stands behind them both, this Warden, _The_ Warden. Her presence gives Ferelden faith in their new monarchs. Alistair makes his speech, and Mahariel clasps her hands behind her back and does not fidget with the dress. The court doesn’t know what it costs her to stand there.

It doesn’t know the arrow that had ripped through her upper arm. Still bandaged, still torn, weaker than she’d like. They don’t know the bruised knees, the cracked ribs, twisted ankle, or the ache of having a friend simply disappear. She thought she’d at least have a chance to give Morrigan a proper goodbye. Mahariel keeps her head held high, shoulders stiff, and stance wide. A warrior’s stance. Alistair looks over his shoulder once he finishes, at her, and it’s the applause from the court that dismisses them.

Zevran leans against a wall, near that corner. Far away from the others, the ones she has to make her way through. To shake hands, make promises, accept congratulations. She is polite, at best, but curt, and quickly pushes through them. To him. Wrapping a hand around his wrist, stepping close. “I wish I had my shield,” she says, “I could push my way out of here.” With her other hand, she finally tugs at the dress, and he smiles.

Instead of her usual braids bound up, she wears one, draped over her shoulder. He follows the end of it, wraps his hand around it, while the other slips to the nape of her neck. Pulling her forward, “you look beautiful. It is truly difficult not to kiss you senseless right now.” Her hand travels from his wrist upwards, over his shoulder, settles with her palm splayed against the small of his back.

“Please, save me from this place. These people.” Behind that pillar, against that wall. Smiling as he dips close, closes his eyes, presses his lips against hers. Returned wholeheartedly, leaning into him, her hand clenching a fist in his tunic. Holding him close as he kisses her again, and again. Once, to either cheek. The tip of her nose. Her lips, once more. Forehead against forehead.

“They are busy with their new king and queen,” he whispers to her, “let’s leave.” Her hand travels up and down his back as she looks around the room. Nobles crowded in circles, talking to one another. Alistair and Anora drifting to one after the other. Turning back to him, surging forward, and one last kiss before she twists her hand in his, leads him to the door.


	261. Blame (Sebastian x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 261\. I'd love to see your take on “This is all your fault.” w/Sebhawke. Tysm if you do and for sharing all your gorgeous writing!

She has her hair pulled back. Too short for it to be done properly, wisps of hair curl around her cheeks. She brushes back an errant strand as she looks upwards, towards the painted ceiling of the Chantry. It had been her favorite part of this place for so long. Stars brushed softly by sunlight, reflections of candles and statues flickering across hopeful blue. It makes them twinkle, shine, almost as though they were real. Following the line of the pillars, the clear glass of high windows. It _had_ been her favorite part. He makes his way down the stairs, and she doesn’t miss the way he lights up when he sees her, his eyes all full of stars.

Sebastian hurries towards her, reaches out to her. Slipping his hands in hers, holding them tightly. “I didn’t expect to see you,” he says.

“I thought I’d surprise you,” she says.

“Consider me pleasantly surprised,” he says, giving her hands a small squeeze. He beams at her, and then leans forward. His breath ghosts warm against her cheek, his lips warmer still. The quickest kiss, all too brief, before he’s leaning back once again.

“A kiss on my cheek? In the sight of Andraste and the Maker? What will the Clerics say,” Hawke says with a mischievous smile. The shell of his ears burn red at her teasing. He’s become bolder, these last few months. Where he might have dropped her hands, instead, he guides her forward. Keeping one hand clasped together with hers, leading her towards a corridor. Hidden from the rest of the Chantry, by the corner.

He holds her face in his hands, tilts her chin upwards. Much bolder. She wraps her hands around his wrists as Sebastian looks at her ever so softly, those stars still in his eyes. Half-lidded, long lashes, and he licks his lips before he surges forward. Some heavy thing, followed by lighter, fluttering kisses. Deeper still, his tongue against her lips. Opening her mouth to him, and he takes full advantage. A kiss that leaves her clinging to him, a kiss that’s slow to stop.

“This is your fault,” he tells her, voice low and hoarse.

“I’ll accept that blame,” she says, standing on her toes, pulling her back to him.


	262. Dancing (Blackwall x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 262\. Blackwall and a lady Trevelyan just being all flirty and cute? I never really come across many writings for him and I just absolutely adore your writing

Arm numb from holding the shield, and she lets it fall. Stretching out her hand, clenching it into a fist. They’ve been at it all morning. Hair pulled back in a messy braid, back coated in sweat, boots and the bottom of her trousers covered in mud. He’s much the same, and Blackwall reaches into the bucket that hangs from the fence, and with cupped hands, wipes water over his face. Over his beard, his neck, and drops land on his tunic. “Thank you for this,” she says, “I needed it.” Her lessons had been functionary things. Fine enough in the practice halls, less so in actual battle.

“Is there anything I could do to repay you?” she asks it as she walks over to him, where he’s leaning against the fence of the training arena. Doing much the same, resting her elbows on the wood, tilting his head towards him. His sword, sheathed, hangs with the bucket of water now. His shield as well. There are so few occasions he isn’t in his armor, the heavier undercoat. A quick glance at muscled arms, his wide stance. He’s tied his hair back in a short bun, and she resists the urge to reach out and touch his nape. Her gaze quickly flicks back to his face as he begins to speak.

“Well, you could teach me one of just about any of the social graces, Lady Trevelyan. I feel slightly lacking in that arena,” he says. She turns, leaning her hip against the fence, crosses her arms as she faces him completely. A slight smile curling, and she leans towards him as she looks up at him.

“There are many to choose from. There’s the absolutely agonizing ritual of serving tea, dancing, playing the harp –”

“Dancing,” he says. She looks almost surprised for a moment, and then a pleased smile crosses her lips.

“I can’t say that’s what I would’ve expected you to choose, but I’m delighted you did. When would you like to start?” Without a word, and quicker than she would have thought, he wraps an arm around her waist, seeks her hand with his. Guiding her out into the middle of the arena, the less muddy bits, beginning to sway with her in his arms.

“I thought we could start now,” he says. Head tilting back as she laughs, and he smiles at the sound.

“Well,” she says, moving that arm around her waist so that only his hand touches her hip, “first of all you’ll want to keep your hand there or we’ll be causing _quite_ a scandal.” The tip of her boots touch against his. “It isn’t just swaying, you know. There are steps.” He looks down between them, watches the way she wants his feet to move. “One, two, three, four, and turn, one, two, three, four.” Again and again.

“Blackwall,” she says, and he looks up. “There’s one thing you can’t forget. The most important part of dancing.” She leans against him as she raises herself on her toes to whisper in his ear, “You must look your partner in the eyes.” Feet come back to ground. “Ready? One, two, three, four…” and this time his eyes stay locked with hers. His hand is slipping from her hip, moving around her once again. “One, two, three, four,” it splays at the small of her back, and he’s still looking at her.

“You’re so beautiful, my lady,” he says. She can still feel the sweat, the mud on her. The red in her cheeks from the exertion of practice. Hair looped and messy, lips red and chapped. She wouldn’t have called herself so, not now, but under his gaze, she feels it.


	263. Party (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: A f!fenhawke kiss at a party for any reason you like!!! <3

Hawke sits on the very edge of the cabinet, tapping her finger against her beer can in rhythm. Watching the others shout over the music, dance to it, and in general – be far louder than they need to be. Taking a sip, and at least she’s in good company. Fenris lounges in the armchair beside her, cradling his own drink, the ankle of one leg resting on the knee of the other. The cap is pulled around his head, wisps of white hair escaping underneath. He’s watching the others as well, all these people packed into Isabela’s tiny place. Technically this party is for him.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Hawke calls out to him. Attention gotten, his head turns to her, raises his eyebrows and taps a finger against his ear. Grinning, she shifts from sitting on the cabinet to sitting on the armrest, balancing herself with planted feet and a hand on the back of the chair, leaning over to speak close to his ear. “I’m glad you’re back.” Fenris chuckles, nods.

“Me too,” he says. She doesn’t go back to sitting on the cabinet. Two years without her best friend while he got a degree in Tevinter, and she’s more than happy to stick by his side now. There’s always been some unspoken thing between them. They got close to it, before he left. Standing in the airport, and he had taken her hand, but in the end it remained unsaid, and she watched him go. Two years of late night Skype calls, phone calls, endless texting. Not the same as having him here in the flesh.

He raises his drink, shakes it slightly, gestures to hers. “Do you want another?”

“If you don’t mind,” she says, passing her empty can to him. She stands, the chair thrown off balance by the sudden loss of him. Hands on her hips, she stretches, and watches him disappear into the thick of things. It’s as though the crowd simply swallows him up. Threading a hand through her hair, scratching the back of her head, and she doesn’t particularly pay attention to the person who moves to stand next to her.

“Hey,” he shouts over the music, some stupid grin on his face, and leaning far too close to her. Hawke raises an eyebrow, takes a step back. “I’ve never seen you at one of these before. Are you a friend of Isabela’s?” She shoves her hands into the pockets of her jeans, some wordless half smile and nods.

“Cool.” He takes a swig of his beer, and steps close to her. “Are you here alone?” Hawke opens her mouth to reply and –

“No. She’s not.” Fenris puts an arm over her shoulder as he glowers at the guy.

“Cool man, no worries, I get it,” he says, raising his hands and backing away. “Hey, aren’t you Fenris? I thought Isabela said you were single.” Hawke puts a hand on Fenris’s cheek, turns his face towards hers. Her fingers touch at the soft wisps of hair at the nape of his neck, and he tastes like wine. He must have found some in the kitchen. He’s got a beer can in each hand, but he’s holding her as best he can. The kiss breaks, and Hawke glares at the guy.

“Does it look like he’s single?” Finally, _finally_ , he gives up and walks away. Fenris is still looking at her, his lips slightly parted. That unspoken, silent, thing. Broken with a clap of thunder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t –” she’s starting to explain but he’s shoving the beer cans onto the shelf nearby, putting his hands on her waist, and pulling her in. Her hand, at his cheek again, the other fisting into his sweater. He’s so warm, his tongue all liquid heat, and her body melts against his.

“I should have done this sooner,” he says between kisses, “far sooner. Before I left.” But he’s doing it now, and that’s all that matters. Happy laughter on her lips as she moves to kiss him again.


	264. Sleeping Hearts (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 264\. Yarrow! Mahannon and Dorian plz "cure for a broken heart"

He fits the key into the lock, turns the handle as quietly as possible. A hard swing, into the softer, knowing exactly where the door squeaks. Not that it matters. “Dorian.” He starts slightly, presses his back against the door.

“ _Fasta vass_. I thought you’d be in bed,” he says. Mahanon is sitting on the railing of the stairwell. Hair loose and pulled over his shoulder, hands in his lap, feet dangling over the edge. Framed by pale moonlight, and his not being in bed is not a good sign, but Mahanon always looks so happy to see him. Dorian can’t help but smile back as he moves forward, one foot on a stair, a hand on his leg.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says. It’s been like this ever since they heard. A flip of a coin on whether or not he spends the night tossing and turning, or lost in dreaming. Dorian can do nothing for this. He can’t give him back his family, his clan. Instead, he opens his arms wide, gestures to him. Mahanon instantly slips from the railing, caught in his embrace. Wrapping legs around his waist, arms over his shoulder, head buried in the crook of his neck. Dorian keeps a hand under his thigh, the other at his back.

Walking up those stairs carefully, shadows stretching across the floor, and he takes a seat on the bed. Mahanon’s knees planted beside him, and still he doesn’t let go. A hand moving to hold the nape of his neck, under that waterfall of hair, while the other moves in circles on his back. Twisting to kiss his cheek, to hold him close. Time will heal his broken heart, but Dorian does what he can to hasten the process. “I’m glad you’re here,” Mahanon murmurs.

“As am I, _amatus_ ,” Dorian tells him.


	265. Step (Carver, F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 265\. Kingcup (from the prompt list) for the Hawke Family? "youth, innocence, dawn"

Sitting on the front step, she’s hunched forward and turning a scrap of paper in her hands. Tearing slightly at the edges, all restless movements, watching as Carver argues with the neighbor across the way. Barks sits beside her, all good posture, and a happy tongue hanging out of his mouth. He’s completely unaware that Carver is speaking on his behalf. Barks was _not_ a nuisance. She didn’t think a fight was worth it over the occasional snide remark. He didn’t think so. Hawke watches as the door slams in Carver’s face. He storms back over to their steps, blustering red in his cheeks.

“Bloody tit,” he mutters as he half throws himself on the step below her, his leg bouncing restlessly.

“Ouch. Sounds painful,” she says with a smile.

“He said fur makes him sneeze. Barks isn’t even around him, ever! He’s either in the house or with us. He’s making a fuss because he can. Makes him sneeze, my dimpled arse,” Carver says. At the sound of his name, Barks’ ears perk up, and he tilts his head curiously. Reaching back without looking, Carver seems to know, and simply scratches the underside of his chin. Once he stops however, Barks flops down and sighs. Hawke smiles, rests a hand on his head, begins to scratch between his ears.

“Do you like Kirkwall?” Hawke asks suddenly. His head tilts back as far he’s able, and Hawke rests that scrap of paper on his frown. He curses again, sits up straight, snatching the paper away. He moves to sit sideways on the step, half facing her, and leaning against the wall.

“It’s alright. It’s not like we’ve been here long,” he says.

“Different from the farm though, yeah?”

“I guess.” He’s holding the scrap in his hands. Turning it round, tearing slightly at the edges.

“Do you think Bethany would’ve liked it?”

“No,” Carver answers instantly. “I think she’d hate it.” Hawke smiles, rests an elbow on her knee, puts her chin in the palm of her hand. He’s right, of course. She knew before she even asked the question. This is not Lothering. This isn’t even Ferelden. All the things they’ve done to survive, all the things they’d continue to do, and Bethany would hate how stuck they are. Arguing constantly in that tiny hovel, surrounded by nothing green. Hawke reaches out, twists a lock of Carver’s hair between her fingers. He swats her hand away.

“How are you doing?” She asks.

“Dunno. Fine,” he says, ripping the paper in two.

“I miss her,” Hawke says softly.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Carver answers roughly. He still feels it. A lingering echo, loud in all the hollow places where his heart used to be.

“At least we have each other. Barks. And Mother. Even Gamlen. I know it isn’t ideal but – we’ll make it work. We always do. This can be home. Not like – not like then. But the worst is over,” Hawke tells him. “The worst is over.” Repeated words, as if she might speak it into being true.


	266. Right Place (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 266\. can i please get a ‘as long as you want.’ cullavellan? <3

Quiet now, when they haven’t had the chance to be so in a very long time. Sitting on the hillside, warm sun and cool breeze, the mabari stretched out between them. Feet planted firmly in the earth, knees pulled up, and her hand playing with a piece of grass beside her. He’s absentmindedly scratching between the mabari’s ears, that spot Cullen knows he likes so well. He let her name him. He didn’t even laugh when she decided on ‘Shartan’. There’s a smile on his lips. It’s barely left him since the moment they announced the disbanding of the Inquisition. Every time she sees it, she can’t help but smile as well.

“So, is this the spot?” she asks. A large rolling valley, a decaying barn in the middle of it. The Divine had sent them a list of potential locations, and this, this is the last. A place to build a home, a sanctuary. Cullen lies back in the grass in a heap, and Shartan raises his head at the sudden lack of patting. She lies down with him, twisting so her head rests against his, and they look up at the clouds together.

“I think so,” he says. “Do you agree?” Rolling over onto her stomach, propping herself on her elbow, before allowing herself to rest some of her weight against him. They’re still getting used to the prosthetic, but she rests that hand on his chest and he runs his thumb over its knuckles as though it were still made of flesh. All the little things to tell her that he doesn’t mind it, loves her all the same.

“I think it’s perfect,” she says. Leaning down, red hair in grass, and her lips touch against his. Raising his hand to the nape of her neck, holding her close, and his thumb moves in gentle circles against his cheek. He brushes back stray hands of hair behind her pointed ears, then pulls her against him again for another kiss. This one is only interrupted when Shartan decides he needs a kiss as well. A slobbering tongue equally split between the two of them.

Laughing as she rolls away in an escape, and Cullen is pushing Shartan away, wiping his face with the back of his arm. “I’ll save you, milady,” he says as he leaps to his feet, deftly scoops her up into his arms. Wrapping arms around his neck as he turns her this way and that, watching as Shartan leaps at his feet, trying to get to her.

“I could get used to being carried,” she says. “Maybe I’ll stay here forever.”

“As long as you like,” he tells her fondly.


	267. New Friends (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i had a idea of Fenhawke (female mage if possible) and the gang finding a little elf apostate child hiding while they killing slavers. And each of the gang tries to gain the child's trust so they will come out of their hiding place and fenris in the end is the one able to gain their trust. Which of course hawke and the others swoon over how good he is with kids

She turns her staff with practiced ease, watches as Fenris cuts down the last slaver. Torches hang dimly on crudely built structures, and the cave is mostly lit by the half-covered openings. A secure enough place, if not for one who already knows the location of each of these caves. Fenris cleans his sword on the slaver’s robe before he sheaths it. Hawke closes the distance between them, puts a light hand at his back and smiles. “Another one down,” she says.

“More will take their place,” he says.

“We’ll kill them too,” Hawke tells him. The slightest upturn of his lips, a chuckling exhale as he shakes his head. Isabela stretches her arms above her head, mewls like a cat as she works the aches from her back.

“Are we done? Can we leave?” Anders asks. “This place is depressing.” Hawke looks at Fenris, and when he nods, she claps her hands together.

“I know I’m ready for a drink,” she says. Isabela’s sigh of relief at that is wildly audible and Hawke chuckles as she puts an arm over her shoulders. He knows they will visit Aveline’s office first. Tell them of what they’ve done, so that they can collect the bodies and seal off the cave. Following behind them, and he suddenly comes to a stop. A sound so quiet, it might have been the wind. His ears twitch as he turns around, eyes looking around the cave.

“Fen? What is it?” Noticing he isn’t with them anymore, Hawke stops instantly, returns to his side. Both Anders and Isabela talk quietly at the entrance of the cave tunnel, leaning against a wood pillar.

“I’m not sure,” he says. There it is again. He steps back into the cave properly, and if not for the tiny shift, he would never have noticed. Hawke notices at the same time he does. A figure behind boxes, hiding underneath one of those makeshift structures. She makes her way towards it, leans her staff against the wall, and kneels down.

“Hello,” she says, “you’re safe now.” Isabela’s walked over in the meantime, bending over, and puts her hands on her knees to look.

“Awe, what a little wee thing. All the scary people are gone now. Anders isn’t scary, his face is just like that,” Isabela says, with a teasing glance over her shoulder. Anders only shrugs, rolls his eyes.

“Would you like to come with us?” Hawke asks, extending her hand. The smallest whimper, and the child curls itself into a tighter ball.

“Hawke. Would you allow me?” Fenris asks. Taking the sword from his back, leaving it on the ground. Hawke takes Isabela by the arm and drags her away. Fenris settles himself at a respectable distance, legs crossed, and his hands in his lap.

“I know you are frightened,” he says softly, in such a quiet voice. “We can sit here until you are not.” A small face peeks out from behind boxes. Wide-eyed, full of tears. Hair choppy, but no matter how messy, it can’t hide the pointed ears. He can hear the others talking behind him, but he pays them no mind. “Are you hungry?” A small nod. Fenris reaches into the pockets of his belt, pulls forth a wrapped piece of chocolate he had been saving. She’s slow to reach around the boxes, quick to take it from his grasp.

“My name is Fenris. I was like you, once,” he says.

“He’s going to scare that kid deeper into the caves,” Anders says to them. Hawke rolls her eyes, while Isabela settles for punching him lightly on the arm. “Look at him! He’s covered in spikes and _angry_. Come on. You can’t tell me that kid doesn’t want to run in the other direction.” Turning just in time to see Fenris get to his feet, his hand out. The child puts her hand in his. Hands underneath her arms, lifting her up and into his arms. Carrying her lightly, securely, while she wraps her little arms around her neck.

“You get to carry his sword back,” Hawke says, tapping Anders on the chest before going to meet them.

“She is a friend. Her name is Hawke,” Hawke hears Fenris say quietly before she gets there. He looks so comfortable carrying her, at ease with the tears on his tunic, the little face pressed against his cheek. Taking a moment to drink it in, the smile on Hawke’s face, and Fenris knows he’ll be hearing about this later.


	268. Best Served Cold (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 268\. If you feel like it, I’d be interested in seeing a fic on how femhawke would deal with the ‘Best served cold’ quest where either their sibling (if they survived the deep roads) or their LI gets kidnaped to be a hostage for the mage extremists. Super love your work btw!

She knows what it is to be late. Too late to reach out and take Bethany by the arm, drag her back to safety. Too late to see the scratch, to notice the sickness in Carver. Too late to see the flowers, to know what they mean. Too late to arrive, too late to save Leandra. It’s a feeling that chokes her, squeezes around her throat, shakes her by the spine. Kneeling down near him, and wisps of white hair stray across his forehead. Settling them neatly with trembling fingers, resting her hand over his chest. A steady heartbeat underneath her palm and Hawke glares upwards at nearby Alain. “Release him,” she says, coldness in every word, “now.”

She barely remembers what came before this. Keran, briefly, telling her that Fenris was taken. That he had taken down four of them before they could subdue him. Vision stained red with sunken rage, white hot panic. Late. Too late to stop them. Too late to keep him safe. Steps quick along the coast, Grace’s words some distant thing. Busy with her gaze fixed on him lying out of reach, and _nothing_ could keep her from him.

Alain drags the knife across his palm. Squeezing his fist together, and some weight that lingers in the air around Fenris finally lifts. Coming to with a few slow blinks, and she puts a hand at his back as he sits up. “I should not have let them take me,” Fenris says as she helps him to his feet, “I let you down.” He says this as though it were in any way his fault. It’s hers, always hers, and she pulls him into the embrace. Hand flat against his back, the other at the nape of his neck, her mouth against his shoulder. He returns it freely, his arms around her.

“I promise. I’ll never let anything like this happen again,” she says. It should never have happened in the first place. Taken, because he means something to her. She should have been more vigilant. She should have – he holds her tighter for the briefest of moments. His head dipping down low, resting quietly against hers. He steps back, puts hands on her shoulders.

“There is nothing more you could have done. They caught us both by surprise. I knew you would come for me,” he tells her. “It is comforting to know I have you at my back, just as I am at yours.” The anger still boils in her. In those that had taken him, in herself. It’s equal to the relief that floods her, at seeing him safe, hearing his voice. Fenris keeps a steadying hand on her arm as more Templars arrive. Cullen, speaking with Samson, and Hawke looks back at Fenris.

She would keep him safe. She would not be late.


	269. Bath (Zevran x F!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 269\. 7 and 11 from the smut list for fwarden and zev please 7 - “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.” 11 - “I heard shower sex is dangerous, but right now, I’m willing to take the risk.”

A towel underneath her as she sits at the edge of the open bath, her legs still half submerged in the water. She drags another towel through her hair, watching as he continues to swim around. Heating runes etched into the edges, keeping the water at a steady temperature, and the steam is heavy in the air. The bath takes up much of the room, and she finally agrees that it was well worth the cost of a private room. “I do not know why you want to go back to Ferelden, knowing that the whole country does not have one of these,” he says as he swims up to her.

“Some things are more important than an open bath,” she says.

“Are they? Are they truly?” Zevran asks it doubtfully, tapping fingertips against her ankle, resting his chin between her knees. Tracing the tattoo at his cheek, his temple, running fingers through wet hair, and she shakes her head as she chuckles underneath her breath.

“We should get back,” she tells him, her glance drifting towards the doors. Instead of floating haphazardly as he has been doing, he now plants his feet, rises out of the water. His hands on her thighs, leaning towards her, beads of water running down his chest and he demands her full attention.

“May I persuade you to stay a little longer?” he asks in a low voice, his face very near to hers. Raising an eyebrow, and she doesn’t back down from his challenge. Nose against nose, and her gaze drifts from his, to his mouth, back to him again. He licks his lips expectantly, but she leans back, palms against the marble floor.

“You may,” she says. Longer hair slung over one shoulder, darker strands against dark skin, and despite her attempts to dry it, water still drips from strands. Over collarbone, down the valley of her chest. A single drop perched on her nipple, half hidden behind her hair. He reaches out, carefully takes it from her with the tip of her finger. He watches her nipple stiffen at his touch and he smirks, so confident.

“This sensitive already, my Warden?”

“I have been watching you swim naked for the last hour,” she says.

“True, it is notoriously difficult to resist me,” he says. She raises a foot from the water, plants it on his chest, and pushes him back.

“Careful Arainai, I’m still ready to leave,” Noya says. Laughter echoes around the room as he holds her ankle, moves her foot out of his way. Stepping forward once again, his other hand at her knee, gentle pressure to part her legs. She does so easily, willingly, presenting herself to him at his request.

“You are always a wondrous sight, _mi amor_ ,” he says. Leaning forward, a palm against her breast, tongue licking at the water drops on her chest. Hands that move ever downwards on the curve of her, thumbs running over stretch marks and scars, the lines that make her. Pulling at her hips, guiding her towards the edge of the bath. Lifting one leg over his shoulder, his mouth at her inner thigh. A hand squeezes at her other thigh, the other still at her hip.

He takes his time kissing – a nip of teeth, a flash of a glance towards her, the smirk he can’t hide – down her thigh, and she moves her hands slightly back. Hair moving from her shoulder, and it’s so easy to tilt her head back as she feels warmth breath against her cunt. Flat hands move into fists, and she bites her bottom lip at that first touch of tongue on her clit. Raising herself up again, wanting to see him, her heel pressing into his back.

He writes his name with his tongue on her clit, enjoying the way her breathing begins to quicken. Frequent glances upwards, watching the rise and fall of her breasts, the subtle flush in her cheeks. She tries to betray nothing, but he knows what to look for. The slightly parted lips, the darkening of her nipples. His hand moves from her thigh, brushes against coarse wet curls. Drifting lazily along the line of her cunt, and these are places he marks for exploration with his mouth.

A ripple in the water from his movements, from her toes that curl. A tongue that dips against the lips of her cunt, runs through them, savors the first taste of her wet. Eyelashes that flutter, struggling to stay open and Noya moves a hand to his head, keeps him close. Hard not to grind her cunt against his mouth, and he finally puts a finger against her entrance. Warmer here than even the water, teasing touch until he hears it. That low rumble, unsatisfied growl, warning of want. Then and only then does he push inside her.

Twisting his finger to that spot, moving in a steady rhythm to match the tempo of his tongue. That heel presses harder, and his hand squeezes at her thigh. Feeling her heartbeat on his tongue, hearing it by his ear, that quickening rise and fall. Fighting a losing battle in holding back, and that first low groan finally slips from her lips. Echoing in the emptiness, mixing against the sound of steam and water. The slightest tremble of her legs, the tightening of her grip in his hair.

“Zevran,” whispered for his ears alone. He changes nothing, keeps the rhythm steady, and slowly drags her closer and closer towards the edge. Noya’s breath hitches, the slightest arch of her back. “Zevran.” Far more ragged this time, on the cusp. His hand on her hips holds her steady as her entire body shudders, shivers with it. “Zevran.” An exhale, the sigh.


	270. Holding His Heart (Carver)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 270\. Holly, “foresight”—for mayhaps the Hawke siblings?

Someone is holding his ribs open. Reaching inside, tearing blindly. It keeps him rooted, keeps him still, and he can only watch as the ogre merely tosses her aside. Her face, turned towards him, looking without seeing. How quickly their eyes go to glass. He moves too late, goes to pick her up into his arms. Was she ever this light? Putting her down, out of the way of the fight. He takes the scarf from her neck, while Leandra throws herself over Bethany’s body, weeps herself dry. There’s no time for a proper burial, proper grieving. There’s never been time since.

He keeps Marian at a distance. He can feel it, almost see it, knows that he can’t handle losing her. They were never that close before, but now he doesn’t want to be. She tries, Maker, she does. At every small hurt, that hand, on his chest. Threatening to pull him apart once again. She tries, Maker, she does, and in some small way, she succeeds. She’s always had his love, earned his respect. He keeps his kindness to himself, rebukes her with roughness. Marian smiles and pats his arm, acceptance in the ass he makes of himself.

It’s almost fitting when _he’s_ the one to get sick. Spare himself the grief, the heartache, and give it all to her by dying first. She doesn’t let him. Of course she doesn’t. An arm around his waist, his arm over her shoulders, and she practically drags him to the Wardens. “Save him,” she says, “please.” It’s fine, this decision made on his behalf. He goes with the Wardens. He keeps Marian at a distance. She tries, Maker, she does. Letter after letter, trying to find out if he’s still alive. He can almost feel the relief from her letter after he finally writes to her.

The letters become a frequent thing. A life line, for the both of them. A subtle ache, at not being there to help with Leandra. Shared grieving in each word at the loss of their mother. He wants to go to Kirkwall. He wants to put his family to rest properly, drown sorrows with his sister. He keeps Marian at a distance. Until, the Wardens bring him to her. On blood soaked streets, beside flaming buildings, he finds her. Breathing hard, weapon in hand, shock in every inch of her to see him. It’s brief, all too brief. She tells him after. Champion of Kirkwall.

They write of mages and Templars. They write of Kirkwall and Anderfels, even Ferelden. She tells him about the Chantry, the Seekers that chase her. A few come to question him. He’s always been half decent at lying. Not as good as Varric, of course, but enough to feign no knowledge of where she might be. Hawke comes out of hiding when they leave, staying in the Warden fortress with him. They watch it together, the subtle change in other Wardens. They watch it together, the explosion of the Breach.

She hides him with Aveline. The other Wardens aren’t safe anymore, and it’s always been her duty to keep him safe. So she says. Varric writes, and Marian says she’ll go. Settle this once and for all. He watches her go. He’s always kept her at a distance. The Champion throws her lot in with the Inquisition, seeks to right another wrong. He watches her go. He’s always kept her at a distance, and days stretch into weeks.

Standing alone, and the glass slips from his hand. Someone is holding is ribs open.

He doesn’t need a letter to know.


	271. A Dance (Cullen x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 271\. Forsythia, Rocket and/or Viscaria for any pairing :D (also greeting from midterms lmao) "anticipation, Rivalry, Dance with me"

Leaning against the balcony, and he closes his eyes. Alexi reigns in his magic, and the world truly goes dark. The night has been an exhausting slash of color, loud music and louder voices, the unfortunate wildness of the Winter Palace. Now, it’s finally quiet. A cool breeze, wafting up from the gardens, bringing the scent of roses with it. Much different from the ballroom floor, smelling of sweat and alcohol. “I thought I might find you here.” A voice from behind him, and a smile crosses his face. Alexi doesn’t need magic to know exactly who it is.

Cullen matches his stance, arms against the bannister, and shoulder against shoulder. “How are you?” He asks it in a low enough voice, rising just above the lingering music that flows from the Palace.

“Tonight has been,” Alexi pauses for a moment, “trying.” He’s stopped trying to look people in the face when he speaks. He can never do it quite convincingly, not knowing exactly where their faces, their eyes, are. A few comments, when they think he’s out of earshot, about how rude he is not to keep their gaze. They don’t believe a blind man could be the head of the Inquisition, of course. He’s been looking forward to being away from all of it, all of them.

“You handled it all with grace, and now Orlais is our ally. And it’s over. No more visiting parties for a while, thank the Maker,” he says, half a groan of relief in his words. The smile instantly spreads across Alexi’s face, a short huff of laughter.

“Should I have been concerned about the crowd of people around you?” Alexi asks.

“Perhaps for their safety. They were… testing me,” Cullen says. At this, the true laughter finally shakes free from him.

“Was there really nothing you liked about tonight?” A rustling beside him, the shift of his shoulders. Only when Cullen’s hand slips over his does he realize he was taking off his gloves.

“Dance with me, and I’ll have liked one thing,” Cullen says.

“I thought you couldn’t dance,” Alexi says, allowing himself to be pulled to the center of the balcony. An arm around his waist, and Alexi puts his other hand on Cullen’s shoulder.

“For you, I’ll make the attempt,” he says, “but you aren’t allowed to laugh.”

“I’m sorry if I step on you,” Alexi tells him. Cullen laughs, plants the slightest kiss against his cheek.

“I think I can forgive it,” he says. A hush, in the ballroom. The last strings being plucked, final breaths into instruments. Lulling up to their balcony, where they softly sway together.


	272. Library Corner (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 272\. "No, I'm supposed to be making you feel good" from the prompt list thingy, for whichever pairing you please

A hand plants itself on top of the pages, pushes down the book. Mahanon, bowed down, his other hand behind his back and an elbow raised. “You know it’s surprisingly difficult to read with your hand in the way,” Dorian tells him.

“Do you know what time it is?” Mahanon asks him. Dorian leans in the chair, looks around him, and from what he can see of the library, it’s absolutely deserted. No light in the rookery, nothing from the rotunda below or the window behind him. Only the lit standing candelabra beside him.

“I assume it’s late,” he says.

“ _Leliana’s_ gone to bed that’s how late it is,” he says.

“I – well, I have nothing to say for myself,” Dorian says with a sigh as he shakes the book free of his hand, closes it and places it on the shelf beside him. “In my defense, it is a thoroughly riveting book on the practical applications of music against the veil.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

“It is, even if you’re being an ass.”

“I’m not! I’m always sincere.”

“Mhm- _hmm_.” Hands on the armrests, pushing himself up, and Mahanon steps backwards so that Dorian can stand. “Well, should we go to bed then?” Dorian asks. A smile, and Mahanon steps forward once again, a hand on Dorian’s arm.

“And waste this perfectly good empty library?” Leaning his weight against him as he tilts his face upwards, candlelight flickering in deeply green eyes. A smile still on his lips even as he presses them against Dorian’s, and his other hand at his chest. Moving upwards, over his shoulder, to the nape of his neck. Dorian’s back is pressed against the shelf, hands moving to Mahanon’s hips. Mahanon raises himself briefly onto his toes, shifting in his arms, fingers curling at the soft wisps of hair at the back of his neck.

“We should really go elsewhere,” Dorian says, even though his hands are moving up his back. A furious kiss returning to his lips, and Mahanon opens his mouth to him. Tongue presses against tongue, hip against hip, legs between legs. Tangled up in arms, in each other, and Mahanon only deepens the kiss. It’s as though he can’t get enough of the taste of him, the feel of him.

“I haven’t seen you all day and I want to make you feel good,” Mahanon murmurs. Shifting again, the subtle grind of his hips. His hands moving over Dorian, fingers working against the belt on his waist.  

“If we get caught, it’s your fault.”

“I’ll take that risk.”


	273. Different Stories (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 273\. Ulmus for the flower prompts! <3 "royalty, strength, age"

Different, after the rain. The streets are quiet, mostly empty. The bag in her hands, hands clasped behind her back, and she steps around a puddle. The birds are returning to the rooftops, chirping song across empty spaces. The machines of the foundry have stopped, and instead of smoke, the air is thick with petrichor, and Hawke breathes it in deeply. Fingertips tapping on railings as she walks down the stairs, past the Hanged Man. Laughter, loudness, inside, Kirkwall’s refuge from the sudden downpour.

Around the twisting paths of Lowtown, making her way back to Gamlen’s. She stops when she sees him, just there, outside the house. There’s a large puddle beside him, illuminated by sunlight peeking through the clouds, his reflection fluttering in it. A mirror image of how he leans against the wall, his arms crossed and eyes closed. Head slightly bowed, strands of white hair brushing against his brow.

She used to be so taken by the stories. The ones read to her at bedtime, of soaring adventure, daring rogues. The princess and her knight, the king and queen, the happily ever after. She’s given up on the stories. She doesn’t wonder if they might grow old together. She only wants to make him happy, even for a moment. He lifts his head at the sound of her steps, straightening his back, his arms falling to his side. “Hawke. I was waiting for you,” Fenris says. She smiles, still holding the bag with one hand, the other at her hip.

“I guessed that,” she says.

“Ah, I suppose,” he says as he looks away from her briefly, and then back, “yes.”

“Would you like to come inside?” She asks, gesturing at the doorway. He looks at it, then shakes his head.

“I meant to ask if you had time to assist me with something,” he says. She reaches out, her hand against his arm, so light that he could shake away her touch if he wanted to. He hasn’t, yet, not in weeks.

“Of course I have time. Give me a minute to give this to Gamlen,” she says, lifting the bag, giving it a shake. His answer is in the nod, and when her hand slips away, he misses its warmth. Watching her walk up the stairs to the door, and she pauses at the landing. Looking over her shoulder, smiling at him, and he – Fenris smiles back. She disappears inside and he runs a hand over his mouth, trying to stop the smile, his other hand over where she had touched him.


	274. Leaving (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I feel like as a fandom we talk and write about Fenris's issues with believing he deserves love and someone who will stick around for him no matter what, but what about Hawke? Imagine her starting to believe after everyone she cares about seems to get hurt around her that maybe it's better that Fenris left, and then one day it slips out and Fenris is so horrified that she would think that that he forgets for a moment that he's hypocritically trying to distance himself in part for her sake and :(

He drapes the blanket over her shoulders. Arms crossed, head upon them, asleep in the chair. Papers crumpled beneath her, the quill still in her hands. He carefully takes it from her, places it further on the desk. Closing the book, gathering up the papers filled with his scrawling. His handwriting is serviceable, but nothing like hers. Taking the seat next to her once again, dipping the quill in ink. He traces over the letters of her name, her writing. “Fenris?” He puts the quill down. Blearily blinking, an elbow on the desk, running a hand through her hair. “Did I fall asleep again? I’m so sorry,” she says.

He shakes his head. “It’s fine. You have been working yourself to exhaustion. You need the rest,” he says. Hawke tries to stifle the yawn, fails. Leaning back in her chair, surprised to find the blanket around her. Pulling it closer, stretching out her legs beneath the desk.

“You didn’t have to stay,” she says.

“I didn’t want you to wake and find yourself alone,” he says. The smallest twitch of her eyebrows before she turns her head towards him, and smiles.

“I’m used to it,” she says. The smile falters with a pang of immediate regret, at the frown that crosses Fenris’s face, at how he looks away. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” Rubbing the space between her brows.

“No,” he says quietly, “it’s fine.” She shakes her head as she plants her feet, rises from the chair. Pacing away a short distance, resting her head against the library behind them. Turning back towards him, crossing her arms, keeping the blanket tightly around her.

“It’s not. I’ve just been – after mother, and the Arishok, I – I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” she says with a short burst of laughter that isn’t really laughter at all. Pressing a hand against her face, a deep inhale, the drawn out sigh. “It seems like everyone around me always gets pulled into something, and maybe that’s my fault. I’m – it’s good that that you left. Because it just makes sense you’d be the next one to get hurt, right?” More laughter, anguish in the way she looks at him, crossing her arms tightly once again. He feels his heart hollow, a weight settle in his stomach.

She straightens as he rises from his chair, closes the distance between them. Head bowed, and he puts his hands on her arms. Still frowning, but something more complicated than that, wisps of white hair crossing his forehead. His hands are moving over her arms, her shoulders, back down again. Fingertips at her back, over the curve of her, and he steps closer still. “Fenris, what are you doing?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs as he leans forward. His face so very close to hers, and their gaze does not shift from each other. A hand settles against his chest as his nose touches hers. Closing his eyes, sealing the kiss. A moment, another, and she begins to kiss him back. A shuddering inhale, a hand splayed at the small of her back. The other still at her arm, thumb wearing small circles against her. It isn’t good that he left. Does she think he doesn’t want her? Doesn’t need her? Her hand over that hollow, feeling his heart beat beneath her palm. As if it beats for anyone else.

“Fen.” Muffled, and she’s leaning back, pressing her hand against his chest. “Fenris.” Breaking the kiss completely, but his touch doesn’t leave her. “Until you decide what this is, what we are, we should stop,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” he says, moving away from her as though he’d touched lightning itself, “that was unfair of me.” He still isn’t himself, knows he isn’t who he’s meant to be. He isn’t whole, and he can’t fill the missing pieces with her, to break her for his benefit. Selfish. She’s missing pieces too. Where he has been broken since his first memory, the pieces have been taken from her. Shattered, again and again, putting herself back together with less than what she had before. Her hand slips from her chest, goes back to a bruising grip around her arm, the blanket.

“It’s alright,” she speaks it softly. Opening his mouth to say something, deciding against it. His hands clench into fists as he looks away from her, goes back to the desk. Gathering up his papers, practice books.

“I – I’ll come again tomorrow. If you will have me,” he says, glancing over his shoulder, looking back at her. The torch flickers on the wall, firelight against her cheek. He will find a way. Become himself. Help her find her missing pieces. Looking at him, and she nods.

“See you tomorrow,” she says.


	275. Cousland is Home (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: So in origins, it bothers me that’s there’s never really any comfort given to the warden who, from any background, just went through a really terrible thing. Could you do Alistair comforting a romanced FCousland about having lost her entire life and family?

They have barred the doors. Pulling down the planks one by one, and putting their shoulders against the door. It takes three heavy heaves before it finally moves, creaks open enough for them to slip inside. A quiet wind drifts through, turns the dead leaves at their feet. Silence echoes in this place. Windows are cracked, broken. Dust covers each pane, the edges made of ash. Stone has been scorched, and they leave footprints in the soot of it.

Tapestries have been torn down, burned away. The remnants of a table here, crisp pages in the hallway. Their presence disturbs only ghosts. Spiders cling to their cobwebs, watch as they pass. The door to the great hall is skewered. Arrow after arrow, the bludgeoned gaps made by hammer and sword. This door they do not have to fight. This one opens with ease.

Someone had piled the bodies together. Someone had lit their pyre. They are indistinguishable now. Charred, blackened. Long lingering marrow, bones she fears might crumble if she dare touch. So she doesn’t. She only stands before them.

Cousland’s come home.

A hand at her shoulder, moving to her back. Alistair steps closer to her, steps beside her, keeps his arm around her. There is nothing he can say, and so he puts his lips to her temple, the hushed kiss, and stands with her. His hand moves in slow circles at her back, and she leans against him. Steady against her, a rock to keep her upright. “What can I do?” he asks.

They work together. They pull away weeds and dead flowers, and twist the garden into something else. Through the night they dig, hole after hole. They carry each body, one by one. A proper burial, prayers given to each one. When they are done, standing on fresh earth, he reaches for the bag he had brought. Pulling it free, he hands it to her.

A tapestry, newly sewn. The Cousland heraldry sits proudly at the center of it. They hang it over the barred door. Fergus will come back from Denerim to find his castle empty and waiting. Despite the burial given, she knows Oriana and Oren will still haunt him in the halls. She slips a hand into Alistair’s. He takes it instantly, holds it tightly. It’s enough. Enough to walk away.


	276. Home (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for this picture http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/180705308889

Rémi's already asleep. Lost in pillows, in blankets, in dreaming. Lips parted, softly breathing. Zevran smiles at the sight of him, as he sits on the edge of the bed. Reaching out carefully, tucking that stray strand of his hair behind his ears. A renewal of the smile as Rémi's nose twitches at the feel of shifting hair. He means to curl up quietly, beside him. The mattress shifts under his weight, and at that, Rémi moves. An unintelligible moan, but his eyes don't open. A knot between his brows, and he's reaching out blindly. Finding Zevran, inviting him in, pulling him close. It's all Zevran can do but go along with it. Resting against Rémi's chest, and he feels a hand settle on his back. A small sigh, something of contentment, and Rémi slips back into sleep. If he ever were awake at all.

Zevran closes his eyes. He can hear Rémi’s heart breathing. A steady rhythm. He’s moved by the gentle rise and fall of his breathing and his fingers wind into Rémi’s tunic. He’s still smiling. He can’t seem to stop. Zevran snuggles closer, and it’s so easy to fall asleep in his embrace. Safer, where he is. Home, always, with him. Home.


	277. Sins of the Father (Nathaniel x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I've always wondered what a romance with Nathaniel from Awakening could've been like, especially playing as a Cousland. I'm curious on your take on it.

It feels less like home now. Not that it ever did. The castle is filled with unfamiliar faces, and his name has changed meaning. It’s no longer something to be proud of. The bow in his hands, in his lap, and his thumb moves over the crest burned into the wood. It’s difficult to explain what it means to him now. Shame is so clearly entwined with it, reviled and hated, but there’s something else there, as well. He looks up at the shadow in his way, the person who sits down beside him. Cousland reaches out, fingertips running over the string of the bow.

“I’m glad we could find it for you,” she says. Taking her hand back, curling them both around the bench, crossing ankle over ankle. All those unfamiliar faces that used to scowl at him now go neutral, or present a respectful nod to her. She returns every single one.

“I’m surprised you looked for it,” he says. She turns to him, eyebrows raised.

“Of course I looked for it,” she says, “it’s important to you.”

“It’s that easy for you? I wanted it, so you got it?”

“Yes,” she says. A snort of amusement and he’s shaking his head, looking away from her.

“Nathaniel. I know what it’s like to have nothing left of your family. To find that one scrap of something and hold on desperately to it,” she says. His hand squeezes around the bow, and he gives her a guilty glance.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he says quietly. She reaches for the bow, and it so easily slips from his grasp. Following the arch of it, stretching the string. Holding it before her, the crest so clearly visible. She stands, steals an arrow from the quiver on his back. Notching it quickly, pulling back the string. She lets it fly, watches as it lands in the gardens.

“I was aiming for the banner,” she says, “I’m a terrible shot.” He stands, pulls an arrow from his quiver. Moving behind her, an arm around her, and he pulls the string with her – her hand in his.

“Breathe,” he says, in a low voice by her ear. Hand over her other hand, and he’s adjusting her aim. “Let go on the exhale.” A deep inhale. The arrow takes flight, tears through the body of the griffon. He steps back, his touch slipping from her. “Not so bad a shot after all.” She holds out the bow to him, and he takes it.

“Only because you were helping me. I can help you too,” she says. A smile tugs at the edge of his lips.

“Really? How?”

“You’re a good person, Nathaniel. You’ll accomplish much in the Wardens. You’ll give your family name honor again,” she tells him. “It isn’t too late to be redeemed. The sins of the father do not need to touch the son.” Closing the distance between them, her hand around his wrist. “Prove to them that you are a Warden.” She gestures at all those strangers. “That you’re Nathaniel.”

Silent and stiff, he can only stare at her. She softens, smiles, reaches up and pats his cheek. “Like I know you are,” she says.  

“Just like that? After all I’ve – my family – has done to you and yours?” he blurts out, stepping forward, after her retreating back. It isn’t the kindest statement, but maybe an argument will keep her here longer.

“Just like that,” she says.


	278. Far Too Late (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: For the "I found you" prompts: 25. Far too late ;) Do your

The hammock sways. He has one foot out of it, pushing it against the ground when he needs to, keeping the gentle motion. She’s curled up in the crook of his arm, and his cheek leans against her head. Playing with the long strands of her hair with one hand, while the other moves fingertips over her knuckles. She has that hand on his chest, playing with the loose lacing of his tunic. “I do believe you found me too late, my Warden,” he tells her. She shifts, looking up at him.

“How so?” she asks. Zevran looks out over the beach. The waves gently rolling against the sand, the moon hanging full in the sky. The pattern of stars without equal, the breeze that trembles through the trees above them. His gaze turns to her, and his hand moves to carefully press against her belly. Noya’s only just begun to show. He had worn her down, insisted on a vacation from all things concerning the Wardens. He wants to steal as many moments together as he could.

“We could have been doing all of this so much sooner,” he says. She smiles, reaching upwards, cupping his jaw and giving his head a small shake.

“And what’s your excuse for not showing up to steal me from my Clan?” she teases. Her hand goes flat against his chest once again, pushing herself up to steal a laughing kiss.

“If I had known where to find you, I would have come running,” he tells her.

“I would’ve done the same for you,” she says. “In a heartbeat.” One she can feel underneath her palm. Beating steadily, as his fingertips trace lightly up her arm, pull her back in to hold her tightly.


	279. Snowflakes (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: A snowflake on your nose from the prompt list for Fenhawke!

“I haven’t seen snow in ages,” she says, laughing as she spins, palms towards the heavens, looking skywards. “It didn’t snow last year!” It’s the lightest thing. Quiet in the streets of Lowtown, save for the flickering torches on the walls nearby, the distant sounds of people in their homes. Snowflakes turn in air, blink as though they are stars themselves. He holds out his hand, and it melts quickly on his skin. She’s still smiling, grinning from ear to ear, but she’s at least standing still now.

“I’ve never seen snow before,” he tells her. She finally looks away from the sky, towards him.

“Every winter, Ferelden would always be buried under a mountain of snow. It was my favorite time of year. Everything stopped,” Hawke says. He’s always known jungle heat, and the sweltering temperatures of Minrathous. Another snowflake lands on his palm. A perfectly crystal thing, which fades far too quickly. Fenris looks up from it, and in the meantime, she’s closed the distance between them.

“What made you decide on Kirkwall?” she asks.

“It seemed an acceptable place to hide,” he says.

“Wouldn’t further south have been better? Ferelden’s a large place. It would have been even harder to find you there,” she says.

“I – I ran out of coin,” he admits. She nods, understanding the struggle perfectly well.

“Imagine if we had met in Lothering,” she says with a renewed smile, “then you would have seen a real winter. All the children in the village used to gather up snow in balls and throw them at each other. It was always so much fun.” As she talks, a snowflake floats down, lands on her cheek. Another, on her nose. There they stay, for a few perfect seconds. Then they are gone, little drops of water against her skin.

“If I had been in Lothering, I doubt you would have wanted to know me,” he says. She laughs as she reaches out, rests a hand against his arm.

“Nonsense. I would’ve made you my friend no matter what, and you know it. I’d’ve even hit you with snowballs,” she says. He reaches out, and with a brush of his finger, wipes away the drops from her nose, her cheek. She blinks, suddenly startled, and it’s that which brings the smile to his face.

“You would have been merciless,” he says. The grin flickers on her lips once again.

“I’m sure you would have returned it in kind.” The snow doesn’t last for long. Enough for him to walk her to the door of Gamlen’s home, to watch her disappear inside. One last snowflake, landing on his cheek. 


	280. Behind (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Waiting for me

It’s always been a fact of the Crows. You must move quickly, stay ahead of the enemy, and do not get caught. To fall behind is to be left behind. To be left behind is to die. So when the arrow slices through his thigh, he understands. He is slowed. He is a burden. He will be left behind. Crying out briefly as he’s thrown to the ground, his leg giving out underneath him. The darkspawn will be on him soon. He will not go down without a fight, readies already bloody daggers. They don’t reach him.

Rémi appears in the corner of his vision, moves to stand in front of him. Some sort of righteous fury in the way the lightning webs between his fingers, the gathering storm, unleashing it upon the darkspawn. Beating away a genlock with the blunt end of his staff, following it up quickly with another bolt. A smoldering ruin of a hole, right where its heart should be. Rémi turns, extends his hand for Zevran to take. “I’ve got you,” he says.

He pulls Zevran to his feet, and that hand moves to wrap around his waist. Zevran puts an arm over his shoulders. Leliana is covering their retreat, arrow after arrow. Alistair clears a path, the methodical working of sword and shield. Rémi practically carries him from the battlefield. “You waited for me,” Zevran says, “you came back for me.” Rémi gives him a puzzled glance.

“Did you think I would leave you behind?”


	281. Eagles (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: was laying down to sleep and had the genius thought of Zevran eagle jumping into a pile of hay AC style. So (whenever you get time/if you feel up to it) - assassin's creed xover with Zev and Noya. (doesn't have to include hay jumping)

“It is more than likely we leap to our deaths,” he says breathlessly, hands on his knees, looking slightly over the cliff. Moving to stand up straight, putting his hands on his hips. She’s close behind him, still looking at the tree line they had just come from. Putting a hand on his back as she leans over as well. Evaluating it through pursed lips, and she shrugs her shoulders.

“I’ve done this jump before. Just aim for the water and not the rocks,” she says. Waves rock against the side of the cliff, spray over the jagged rocks.

“You make it sound so very simple,” Zevran tells her. She looks over her shoulder as she hears the yelling in the woods. Birds fly from trees, the disturbance that makes their way towards them.

“It is simple: we jump, or we’re surrounded by guards and killed,” she says.

“Death and death, what a lovely choice,” Zevran says. She reaches out, turns his face away from the cliff and towards her. Leaning forward, she plants a simple kiss on his lips.

“You’re going to be fine,” she says, “trust me.”

“I do, I just do not see –”

“Close your eyes.” He stares at her for a brief moment before he obliges. “We’ve done jumps far worse than these countless times before, and I’m sure we’ll do them again. First, all you have to do,” she says as she steps behind him, “is take the leap,” and pushes him forward.

“Ah – trust broken!” he shouts up at her. She backs up slightly and takes a running jump off the cliff. Arms in the air, robes around her, she laughs as she falls, watching Zevran dive safely into the water. She follows soon after. They both gasp for air as they breach the surface, hair swimming in tendrils around them.

“That was miserable,” he tells her. She swims closer to him, a watery hand patting at his cheek.

“I’d never let you get hurt, you know that,” she says. They look up at shouting voices. Guards, on the cliff, staring down at them, readying their crossbows. “Time to go.” Taking his hand in hers, they dive down together once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	282. Low (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 9! Hawke and fenris Hand buried inside of your underwear, my name whimpered on your lips

Her hand trembles at the nape of his neck. Fingertips that press, that move against the slight wisps of soft hair that nest there. She shifts from one foot to the other, bites her bottom lip, and he keeps his face close to hers. Close enough to hear the way her breath hitches at his touch, to see how her eyelashes flutter. The long grass sways against their legs, and the sea crashes in waves against the rocks below them. They’ve been on the Wounded Coast far too long. They’ve taken to stealing moments where they can.

A hand at her hip, standing very near her, barely inches apart. A kiss to her forehead, her temple, her cheek. Mumbling at his lips, as his other hand splays against her belly. Warmth against warmth, feeling her heart beat between the v of her hips. Hawke, eyes half-lidded, looks up at him. Lips red from attention, licking them once again. It was she who had found this abandoned place, far enough away from camp. Fenris shifts his hand downwards, moves slowly but steadily, his fingertips slipping into the hem of her underwear.

He studies the flush in her cheeks, the pink that flowers under freckles. The way her mouth moves slightly, speaking with words she cannot say, wanting with more than she can give voice to. His hand finds coarse curls, and as he presses it against her, her own hand tightens at the back of his neck. The same wind that sweeps through the grass also takes command of her hair, stray pieces across her face, one against the side of her mouth. From her hip to her cheek, he brushes them away for her, tucks them behind her ear, and raises her face to his.

The kiss swallows the groan at the first finger he moves through wet folds. His finger focuses instead on her clit, that small nub that makes Hawke press her back even more into the rocks she leans against. He moves against it gently, presses only hard enough to make her squirm. In slow circles, listening to her breathing quicken. Her head falls against his shoulder, against him, and her other hand wraps around his wrist. Keeping him locked there, a plea for more.

He runs his finger through the folds of her cunt once again. Wet with want, and she gasps. He presses the pad of his fingertip against her entrance, but does not push inside, not yet. Instead, he is content to leave her with teasing touch, listening to how she sighs as he refocuses his attentions back to her clit. She widens her stance and he isn’t sure if she even realizes, as her other hand moves to fist at his back. Half leaning against the rock, half leaning against him, and he slips his other arm around her, holds her steady.

“Fenris,” spoken low, in a hoarse voice. It does him no favors, and his already hard cock strains against his trousers at the sound of it. He moves his palm against the base of her cunt, presses his fingers against her entrance once again. She rocks against him, hips grinding against his hand, and this time, he does push his finger inside. She surges forward in his arms along with the groan, the hand that was at his neck now fisting in his hair. Her mouth beside his ear, his name a whimper on her lips. “ _Fen_.”

He moves with a steady rhythm, keeping his palm pressed against her. That finger in and out, in and out, and a kiss to her temple. She mewls, shifts from foot to foot, and hugs him close. Gasping as he adds a second finger, and he does not change the rhythm. Curling his fingers, finding that spot inside her that makes her legs shake whenever he rubs against it. She breathes heavily, and she is _trying_ to stay quiet. He doesn’t make it easy for her.

She is so warm, so wet, and her cunt clenches around his fingers. His other hand splayed against the small of her back, and his cock leaks with evidence of his own desire. He keeps himself focused on her pleasure. He increases the tempo, but only slightly, but enough to have her whole body tremble against his. “Fen,” a ragged whisper, “Fenris, _please_.” Turning her face to his, moving to reach for the lacings of his trousers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	283. Streets (Sebastian x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: If you're taking requests from the I Found You list, could I get 11 ("Bloody and bruised in a strange alleyway, so far from home") w/the loves of my life Sebhawke? Tysm if you do and, as always, for sharing your beautiful writing

It spills out into the street. The door opens with a slam, wood rattling against stone walls, light that blooms over snow covered cobble. A body, stumbling backwards, and the one that follows after. A fist wound in his shirt, holding him steady, the other winding up, punching him down. She lands the blow, swift and sure, releases her grip on him. He stumbles backwards, away from her, palms against the ground. With the back of her hand, she wipes away the blood from her split lip, and stands over him. “You don’t get to do that. To _anyone_. Go home,” she tells him, furiously and yet calmly, pointing her now bloodied hand down the street. He quickly scrambles, taking off running, right past Sebastian.

She watches him go, and briefly, her glance finds him. Snow falls in a now silent street, lit by only that of the open door of the Hanged Man. Laughter and warmth on the inside, and without a second glance at him, she retreats back inside. Sebastian keeps his bag of goods close to his chest, and continues his walk back to the Chantry. He supposes he shouldn’t expect any different from the denizens of Lowtown. It’s a roughness he recognizes, one he has taken careful steps to work from himself. He doesn’t expect to see _her_ again. Until he does, weeks later.

Standing in front of him with the notice in her hand, holding it out to him. “No one should have to lose family,” she says, “The ones who have taken them from you have been killed.” Sebastian reaches out slowly, takes the notice from her. The parchment is worn now, having been folded, pocketed, and kept. He reads the words over again, to himself.

“You have my eternal gratitude, serah. It is comforting to think my parents might now rest easily in their graves, knowing they’ve been avenged,” he says.

“I hope that it gives you some comfort as well, so that you might sleep a bit easier,” she says. Raising his head from the notice, looking at her. He wasn’t sure if she would recognize him. She keeps his gaze, and gives him a slight but knowing smile. With a respective nod, she begins to turn away.

“Serah,” he calls after her, and she stops, looks over back at him, “if I might – what is your name?”

“Hawke,” she tells him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	284. Missing (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hello! "33. Tickling my sides" for pavellan, pretty please?

It isn’t strange to see him running, instead of walking. Weaving around the denizens of Skyhold, leaping soundly off the shorter battlements. He always lands steadily, and off he goes once again. Leaning by the window, and he’s an easy sight to follow. Breath fogging out behind him, cheeks red with cold and effort. Hair bound in a loose bun, wisps of it curling all about his face, over his shoulders, and neck. The grin is a constant, the effortless ease and optimism he infects all others with. He always does his rounds when he returns, checking in everywhere he needs to. He’s moving in a hurry and Dorian knows he’ll be last. Dorian knows why he’ll be last.

He pretends he doesn’t care, or at the very least, doesn’t know he’s coming. He busies himself with bookshelves, all the ones he hasn’t read yet. Pulling one down, flipping through the pages. Mahanon’s laughter echoes in the rotunda, the quiet follow of whatever Solas might be saying. It all floats upwards. Dorian closes the book, puts it back, and reaches for another. The laughter fades, the quiet consumes, replaced by light steps. Surging forward, and Dorian feels hands at his hips. Moving up to his sides, settling there for a moment, before arms wrap around him completely.

Mahanon settles his chin on Dorian’s shoulder, looking at the book in his hands. He hugs him tightly as Dorian puts the book away, and rests his hand over his. “You know,” Dorian says, “I do enjoy breathing from time to time.” He doesn’t mind the tightness of it, nor the way Mahanon now settles in stubbornly, holds him closer.

“I missed you so much,” Mahanon tells him, and the words come out in almost a low groan. He knocks head against head and Dorian doesn’t need to see him to know he’s sporting a weary pout. His fist winds into Dorian’s tunic, and he keeps his entire body pressed against his.

“Then perhaps you should have come to see me sooner,” he says.

“You know I can’t do that,” Mahanon says, “because then I never want to leave.” He knows. He just likes hearing him say the words.

“Come on, let me see you.” His grip eases only slightly, enough for Dorian to turn in his arms, cup Mahanon’s face in his hands. “I missed you too, _amatus_.” Leaning forward, and there’s a smile on Mahanon’s lips, joyful in the kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	285. Feels Like (Alistair x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: you've shown me what love can feel like. m!warden and alistair?? PLEASE I LOVE YOU

He reaches out, brushes fingertips against his knuckles. He watches as Alistair’s hand slightly twitches, balls up into a fist. He’s still looking outwards towards the tavern proper, but the shell of his ears begin to burn crimson, that flush creeping into his cheeks. Amell smiles at the stubborn way Alistair barely holds himself together. His fingertips trace bone down his hand, back up again. Circling, dancing, over each knuckle, and back down again. Stopping at his wrist, giving him a small tap. Another, and another, until finally, Alistair looks over at him.

“Are you ignoring me?” Amell asks with a sly smile.

“Yes.” The smile only widens into a grin.

“Why?” Slow lines of touch down his thumb, back to his wrist, down again, back again. The blush blooms completely as Alistair looks at him. Looking at him properly now, turning towards him, leaning over the table.

“You haven’t said it back yet,” Alistair says in a low whisper. Gaze meets gaze and does not leave, his hand still balled up in that fist. His hair is slightly tousled, the lacings at his collar undone. The sounds of the tavern melt away under his sudden seriousness, and Amell breathes out calmly. He keeps the slightest smile as his fingers come to rest at the back of Alistair’s hand.

“So you’re going to ignore me until I say it back?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not doing very well on the ignoring part,” Amell tells him, unable to resist the urge to tease. Alistair leans back in the chair, his shoulders stiffening up. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then thinks better of it. His jaw clacks shut, and he looks back at those gathered in the tavern. _Cute_. Amell covers his mouth, stifles the fond chuckle. Apparently, he doesn’t hide it well enough as Alistair finally moves his hand, rubs his face, his hair, seems to come to some decision. The chair scrapes against the floor as he leaves it, leaves Amell still sitting there.

Not for long. Amell hurries after him, down the quiet hallway. “Alistair.” He knows he hears him. It’s in the roll of his shoulders, the red at the back of his neck. “Ali-st _ai_ r.” He draws out every syllable, speaking it some sing song way, and still he doesn’t look his way. “Alistair,” he says, chasing after him, hurrying his steps, slipping his hand into his. He puts his other hand against his chest, stops him in his tracks. Pressing Alistair back, against the wall, and his hand is fisting into his tunic.

Amell stands very near to him, leans completely against him. Tilting his face upwards, letting his nose brush against his. “Alistair.” A name, so gently used, so softly spoken, can be more intimate than a touch, a kiss. He’s trying so hard to look everywhere but Amell, but his hand holds his so tightly. “Talk to me,” he says. Alistair gives a small shake of his head. “But I love you,” he says, still standing on his toes. He lets his hand flatten, feels how fast Alistair’s heart beats underneath his palm.

The hand not held in Amell’s grasp now goes to the nape of his neck. Alistair keeps him close as he plants the kiss, a low groan at the back of his throat as they both melt into it. Slow to kiss, slow to break, and it’s as though he’s forgotten how to breathe. Half-lidded eyes, a shuddering inhale, and “ _finally_ ,” Alistair sighs contently. Moving forward once again, and it’s all grateful and needy, want and wanted, showing him how he feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	286. Home (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: You’ve always felt like home." for the pairing of your choice! (maybe DA2 if you are feeling that!)

He’s the one to lock the door. She’s standing in the street, staff held loosely in her hands, looking up at the estate. On the roof, there are tiles of different colors. It’s what they could find, to repair it, after the rubble of the Chantry explosion. The vines have grown wild, ivy that makes its home in every nook and corner. The windows are dark and covered, and Fenris extinguishes the light beside the door. Hawke reaches out, puts a hand against the crest that hangs on the pillar. Her fingers trace the sigil, brush away dirt and leaf.

“I’m ready,” she says, “let’s go.” She isn’t ready. Not truly, and he knows that. She turns her back on the estate with a heavy heart, and together, they walk through empty streets. There are a few who watch them go, and say nothing. Kirkwall has known for some time that their Champion must leave it. It isn’t fair, not really, but it keeps the city from burning for a third time in so few years. For the second time in so few years, Hawke leaves a place she considered home.

They keep their hands locked together, fingers entwined. Walking in pace, and he hears her softly sigh, as they cross the city line. It will take them a few days to reach the cottage on the coast. His sword at his back, the bag as well, one that matches hers. They’ll become more of a burden, the farther they go. They’ve taken what they can, but it’s only a reminder of what they’ve left behind. They reach the tree line, and he gives her hand a small squeeze.

“Are you alright?” he asks, and her steps drift, wanders closer to him. Shoulder bumps against shoulder, and she shrugs, gives him a smile.

“I have this _feeling_ like I’ll never see the estate again,” she says.

“You will,” Fenris tells her. “We’ll be able to go home soon enough.”

“I hope so. But even if we don’t…” her voice trails off and she shrugs again, renews the smile. “We can always find someplace else.” He stops walking, and she stops as well, turn towards each other.

“Any place is home,” he says, his fingers brushing against her cheek, “with you.”

“Sweet talker,” she says, but this smile is truer, brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	287. Freedom (Zevran x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surana discovering freedom for @lynngo-art

The fields have been abandoned. Left on their own, long weeds and while grass grow between the rows of unharvested wheat. A gentle breeze and the stalks sway, brush against them as they walk. Zevran keeps his hand out, lets the very tip of the wheat brush against his palm. He only stops walking when Rémi does, suddenly pausing in his steps. He turns his gaze towards the setting sun, the torn ribbons of pink and purple that streak across the sky, under stitches of clouds. The breeze, and Rémi closes his eyes, listens to all the breaks in the silence.

The tranquil sound of the wheat, and from the forest that lines the field, leaves rustle, branches crack. Birds, in the distance, and the crickets have only just beginning to wake. A softer scent in the wind, the telling of rain that’s soon to come. Calm, before the storm. 

Zevran is busy paying attention to his back, the messy braid that needs to be redone. Wisps of hair swirl around him, and Rémi absentmindedly tucks them behind his ear. He can see only the very edges of his face, sees the way he sighs when he opens his eyes once again. Zevran startles forward when Rémi suddenly goes to his knees, collapses among the wheat. He finds him lying on his back, arms eagle-spread, staring up at the sky. That messy braid about him, a halo, and Zevran puts his hands on his hips as he leans over him, stares down.

“I do not think this is where the others have set up camp, _mi amor_. Unless you see something I do not,” he says. Rémi grins, and reaches upwards, gestures for Zevran to come down to him. With a tilt of his head and the slightest quirk of a smile, he obliges. Settling down beside him, between the rows, and he makes a point to find his hand, hold it in his, link their fingers together. Resting their clasped hands between them, and Zevran follows his lead, looks towards the sky.

“I felt grass for the first time when Duncan recruited me and took me from the tower,” Rémi says. Zevran turns his head, watches him as he speaks. “We had windows but most of them were stained glass, dirty or covered.” The earth is cool beneath them, the sunset obscured by the heads of swaying wheat. Grass tickles against his cheek, and oh, the gentle way with which he speaks. “There have been a lot of things I’ve had to get used to, and I have. But I’ll never be used to this.” A deep inhale. A slower exhale.

Zevran holds his hand tighter, shuffles closer. Shoulder pressed against shoulder, and they lean their heads against each other. “I would like to take you to see many things,” Zevran tells him. “Ferelden is… Ferelden, but you must experience more than that. Perhaps we shall go to Rivain to see the ships of Rialto Bay. I also hear that the Grand Necropolis in Nevarra is quite the sight. As well, you have not lived until you have stolen grapes from Antiva’s finest vineyard.” Rémi laughs, bright and wild, dimples on his cheeks.

“That sounds wonderful. Except for maybe the Bay. All that open water,” he says, giving a fake shudder. Zevran scoffs.

“I will teach you how to swim. It is not so terrible,” he says.

“Easy for you to say. You didn’t grow up with the most water you’ve touched being in a bathtub.”

“This is true. But you have taught me many new things and now I can do the same for you.” Rémi gives him a puzzled glance.

“What have I – _mmph_.” Propping himself up on his elbow, keeping Rémi’s hand still in his, Zevran leans over and swallows his words with the kiss. His other hand ghosts against his cheek, brushes away grass and hair alike. Thumbs moving over his cheekbones, fingertips that trace the shell of his ear. He’s never been confident at putting feelings into words. The freedom Rémi finds in open fields and unobstructed sky? Zevran finds it in him. His hand settles at the nape of his neck as he presses the kiss, inhales all that Rémi has to give. Returning it in full, leaving him breathless as he lies back down.

Hands held between them and he makes sure their heads are touching once again. “We can stay here a little longer, yes? I am sure the others will survive without us,” he tells Rémi. Looking up at the sky, and Rémi is looking at him. Studying the angles of his face, the curve of his nose, his mouth. The smile slowly spreads, and he doesn’t press the issue. Soft pastel colors fade into the harsher tones of evening, and still they stay, counting the stars above them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	288. Blooded (Alistair x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: OH OH "i know you're bleeding but you'll be okay" ALISTAIRRRR

They break through the line that the others hold. Amell reels back as a Darkspawn slices towards his face. Raising his staff to meet sword, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Daveth fend off a genlock, stab a dagger into its side. He has no sight on Alistair and Jory, lost somewhere in the thick of the wood. He hopes they’re far enough. The hurlock screams bloody at Amell, and with a quirk of his head, he blasts the energy outwards. Leaves and small branches go with it, dirt and dust, the hurlock thrown to its back.

Another quickly takes its place, one Amell doesn’t quite see, and it’s not the staff he raises in time, but his hand. Yelling out as the jagged edge tears into his palm, swinging around his staff and as the head of it lands against the hurlock’s skull, the fire sears inside of him. The hurlock screams but does not break off its assault, not until Alistair slams into it with his shield, sends it crashing to the ground. He drives the sword through its throat and through heavy breath, he asks, “Are you alright?” Amell nods, clenches his hand into a fist. There are other things to worry about first.

As he channels ice and flame, the staff grows sticky and wet with his blood. It drips through his fingers, burns against his skin. Daveth sinks an arrow through the eye of a genlock, and while it stumbles, Jory follows through. One by one, the Darkspawn fall in the face of their assault. Amell uses the edge of his robe to wipe the blood from his staff, and then, holds out his hand in front of him. Staring at his palm, the blood that oozes from it. Jagged skin, ruined muscle, the sight of bone. It would be easy enough to heal, and yet…

Alistair puts his hand underneath his, squints at the wound. He pours water from his canteen over it, and Amell dabs at it with his robe. “It’s not as bad as I thought,” Alistair says, “you’ll be alright.” With his other hand, he opens the pack on his belt, pulls free a healing poultice. He slathers a generous amount over Amell’s hand, wraps it tightly with bandages. Still, Amell doesn’t move.

“Are you hurt somewhere else?” Alistair asks after a moment, tucking the container for the poultice back into his pack. Amell shakes his head.

“This is going to sound silly,” he says, “but I’ve never been injured before.” There have been scrapes of course. Accidents with magic. Nothing to leave a mark, nothing that hurt quite like this. His hand throbs, in time with each beat of his heart, a pulse of pain. Ostagar had been fascinating, wonderful, so many people and things, and – he’s beginning to realize, that maybe, leaving the tower might have been a mistake.

“Sorry.” Amell looks up, startled, and Alistair is scratching the back of his head. “I should’ve gone left, but I didn’t, which is why those Darkspawn got through.” He puts a hand on Amell’s shoulder. “Won’t happen again. Us Wardens have to look out for each other,” he says. He gives his shoulder a small shake.

“I’m not a Warden yet,” he reminds him. Alistair gives him a wide grin.

“You will be,” he says as his hand falls back to his side. “After all, I need you to watch my back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	289. More Than This (The Arishok x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "i want no more than this.” arishok/hawke

They open the gates for her. She doesn’t look at either of the Qunari who flank the doorway, keeps her chin held high as she strolls through. They never talk about her presence here, but she can feel the eyes of all of them on her as she goes. Stopping just before the steps, looking upwards towards the empty seat. Typical. He thinks her at his beck and call, summons her when he pleases, and doesn’t have the decency to even be there when she arrives. Hawke sighs as she leans against her staff, puts a hand on her hip, and drums her fingers impatiently.

“ _Shanedan_ , Hawke.” She turns on her heel, watches as he closes the distance between them. He gestures at the empty chair – throne, more like. “Sit,” he tells her. She raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t think your folks would like that very much,” she says, looking around at the Qunari who watch them. The Arishok doesn’t gesture again. He simply looks down at her, his hands at his side, and then look around at the others. They turn away from his gaze. Back to her.

“Sit.” She ponders it for a moment, pursing her lips, comes to some decision. She climbs the steps. Sitting on the throne, one leg over the other, and she leans back, her staff leaning against her. Cloth with the Qunari sigil hang over the armrests, and the fabric is soft underneath her hands. She lounges comfortably, and keeps her eye on him. He stands where she once stood, as though he’s some penitent patron, waiting to ask his questions of her. Ask, he does, in his own way.

“You will learn Qunlat,” he says.

“Why? You speak common just fine,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. He moves to open his mouth, speak again, but she raises her hand, a finger, and silences him with a gesture. “You need to stop _summoning_ me. I’m not your pet.” It’s become a daily occurrence, to find a Qunari standing outside her door in the morning.

“Then you will stay here,” he says. She scoffs.

“No.” She pushes herself up from the throne, stands at the top of the stairs. This time, she’s the one looking down at him. “There’s a reason why you ask me here all the time. Tell me what you want,” she says.

“I want no more than this,” he tells her.

“If you want conversation, you have plenty of your own people to choose from. Maker, there’s even more interesting humans than me,” she says, walking down a single step, closer to him.

“They do not give me the answers I seek,” he tells her.

“And what answers are those?” she asks.

“Ones of truth. You speak what you mean. Others who stand before me _lie_ , as though their tongues might please me more that way,” he says, watching as she steps down another. Standing in front of him now, and they’re the same height. She still has her chin held high as she reaches out, her finger tracing the shell of his ear, over all those dangling gold rings.

“No more summoning. If you want me here, you can ask,” she says. “Understand?” Her hand falls back to her side. The Arishok nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	290. Te Amo (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: let me live or let me love you" for whatever pairing you want <3

“You are so very fussy,” he says to her. “You will not let us sleep, hmm? Then you must deal with my love.” He rubs her small back as he walks with her, tiny fists clenched into his tunic. She’s been wailing most of the night, her face red and wet with tears. She still lets out the occasional cry, but it’s only if he stops walking. He’s been up and down most of the stairs of the Keep by now, and he must have circled the great hall at least three times. He turns his head towards her, kisses her head. Little pointed ears, just like her parents.

There’s a wet spot on his shoulder, against his chest, where she presses her face. For such a little thing, she gives off such warmth. Zevran knows his way back to their room – would know it blindfolded. Gently leaning against the door, pushing it open. With a sigh, he settles himself in the rocking chair. Nere hiccups, holds back the cry, as soon as he begins to rock. He adjusts her in his arms, cradling her. Suri sleeps in the cradle nearby, much more at ease at night than her twin. He smiles as he gently brushes a finger against her cheek.

She blinks up at him, and as she wraps her hands around his finger, the grin bursts across her face. He chuckles under his breath at the sight of it. Suri’s temperament has always been content with everything. Nere makes her complaints far well known, and to see her smile here, now, with him, for _him_ … Hands slip underneath her arms and he raises her up to pepper her face in kisses. Tiny feet against his thighs as he holds her, this squirming lump. _His_ squirming lump. “ _Te amo, mi cielito_ ,” he tells her softly.

She reaches forward, and he leans her against his chest once again. A hand splayed at her back, the other underneath her, Zevran returns to rocking in the chair. His cheek against her head, he hums quietly, softly, as to not wake Suri and Noya. Soon enough, Nere’s eyes begin to close. He rises carefully, places her in the cradle next to Suri. Smiling at both of them, watching them sleep, and watching them breathe.

He crawls into bed with the same sort of care, but she wakes anyway. Noya murmurs something unintelligible, as she pulls herself towards him. Burying her face in the crook of his arm, her own arm thrown across his chest. “M’thank you,” she mumbles. Zevran contains his laughter as he brushes hair behind her ear and kisses her forehead.

“Of course, _mi amor_. It is my pleasure,” he says. He’ll never not volunteer to be the one to take them. He wants to spend every waking moment with his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	291. Safe (Fenris x F!Hawke, Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: If your still taking requests I’d love to see #15 “Shouldn’t you be with him/her?” With either a Hawke or Inquisitor. Love reading anything you write :D

She looks over the battlements, arms crossed. Watching all the people that come and go, spare no thought to who might be above them. There’s conversation, laughter, and in the section sparred for sparring, soldiers cheer each other on. Sequestered in Skyhold, it’s easy to forget all that’s happening beyond the mountains. “You know,” he says, “I’m surprised he’s not here with you.” He isn’t looking at the people. He’s leaning against the battlements, head tilted towards the sky. They’re practically shoulder against shoulder, and she spares him only a single, amused, glance.

“You know,” she says, in the same tone, “I’ve tried summoning the Maker, but he hasn’t shown up yet.”

“Might I interest you in an elven god?” He asks, tapping at a pointed ear. “Maybe you’ll have better luck.” She chuckles under her breath, mirrors the way he is. Leaning against stone, arms and legs crossed, staring up at the clouds that pass.

“I’ll consider it,” she says.

“I mean Fenris. Shouldn’t he be with you?” Hawke sighs, and her head tips back towards earth.

“I didn’t exactly give him a choice,” she says.

“Why not?” They both look at each other, and Hawke studies him with grim intent.

“One day, all of this will be over. You will have fought, you will have lost some, but you’ll win in the end. You’ll be tired. You’ll think it’s done. You’ll give yourself the chance to be happy with Dorian. You _will_ be happy. Then, one day, something will happen. You won’t want to go. You know it’s going to be dangerous. But you’ll look at Dorian, and know that leaving is the right thing to do. You’ll know it’s not his fight, either. So you have two choices. You take him with you, and maybe you slip up, and he’s the one who gets hurt because of it. Or you don’t, and you beg forgiveness when you go home, but at least he’s _there_ , and he’s _safe_ ,” she says.

“What if you chose the third option?” Mahanon asks. She smiles.

“Is it an option for you? Because it isn’t for me,” she says. The option of no. Of staying there, with him, and leaving all of this to others. And if they lost? If she could have changed something? That would have been on her. The knot between Mahanon’s brows, and she knows he feels the same. Hawke pats his back.

“Or I’m wrong, and this is it, and Thedas stays unfucked when this is over,” she tells him. He snorts laughter, turns around. The laughter fades, and his mouth settles into a grim line. He looks over the battlements, studying each and every person that comes and goes. All of them, under his command, trusting his decisions, and there isn’t one of them he wouldn’t fight for. Dorian, most of all. He’d fight to his last breath to keep him safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	292. Gnawed and Noble (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Is it possible to fit 5,6, 7 &10 in one fic? For Noya & Zevran? Maybe an argument they got into, riiight before the officiation of their relationship? From the angst drabble list! 5 - “I thought we were friends.” 6 - “Stop yelling and listen for a second.” 7 - “What you did what stupid and dangerous and scared the hell out of me.” 10 - “Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you trusted me.”

He watches the moon rise, waits for the changing in her breathing. She sleeps on her stomach, arms folded underneath the pillow, long hair in a single loose braid. Slow and steady, she’s dreaming quietly, and only then does he slip from the bed. He avoids the parts of the floor which creak, all the ones he’s memorized in their time spent at this inn. Denerim has been a comfortable stay, a welcome difference from tents and mud. He dresses quietly, sheathes his daggers.

Closing the door carefully behind him, making sure it’s locked. The streets are unkinder here, now, but he knows his way around them. He passes others, those who make their business in the night, acknowledging that they are very like him. They avoid each other, make no eye contact. The tavern door opens at his lightest touch. Everything is subdued, quiet, older patrons who hoard their drinks and watch him as he passes.

There’s light underneath the door he stands in front of. Awake. Waiting. Zevran stands in the doorway, but Ignacio doesn’t look up when he enters. Packing his pipe by candlelight, sitting beside the table. Guards fill the room around him, keep their eyes on Zevran, and Zevran alone. “Did you think we wouldn’t expect you?” Ignacio asks, flicking the match, lighting the pipe. Zevran keeps a hand wrapped around the hilt of his dagger.

“Then you know what I am here to ask,” he says. Ignacio regards him with utterly bored disdain.

“Then you have truly turned your back on us for _that_.” Knuckles white, gripping tightly, the storm on his brows. “Pitiful,” he sighs. Dragging long and hard, sighing out smoke.

“Tell me what contracts there are on her life,” he says.

“Why should I?” Ignacio shrugs. Zevran steps forward, draws the dagger free, and all the guards stand up straighter. Ignacio only snorts laughter. “There is only the one, which you failed. Someone else has been tasked to finish it. Perhaps someone who might even convince you to return to us.” Zevran’s blood runs suddenly cold, the shiver that works its way up his spine. “Now put that away before you embarrass yourself.” He turns the pipe to the side, knocks out the ash.

“I will never return to the Crows,” Zevran tells him.

“We shall see,” he says. Zevran sheathes the dagger, turns on his heel. The door swings shut behind him. They’ll be coming, and soon. Taking no chances this time, an entire murder of Crows. She will need to be warned. She will need to be protected. She – she is standing outside the Tavern, a furious frown on her face, weapons in hand.

“I knew it,” she says. “I knew you would go see him. By yourself Zevran? Really, I thought we were friends.” She keeps her voice low, mocking, but her tone is filled with anger, a scolding meant for his ears alone. He approaches her with his hands out, palms open. “Do you realize how stupid this was? They could have _killed_ you.”

“Noya, please, _amor_ , listen to me a moment,” he says, standing in front of her, putting his hands on her arms. She holds her spear so tightly, the shield in the other. To her credit, she closes her mouth instantly, looks at him expectantly. “There is still a contract on your life. I think I know who they have sent to finish the job. We need to be more careful.”

“Is this why you went? Why wouldn’t you tell me you were going, Zev? I would’ve understood, you know I would’ve. But going alone? This was more dangerous than it should’ve been. You should’ve told me. I thought you trusted me,” she says. 

“I do. I do trust you. I did not know if they would speak to me with you there,” he says. She sighs, lets the spear loose from her grasp. It leans against her as she reaches for him, puts a hand at the nape of his neck. She pulls him close, touches forehead against forehead.

“You scared me half to death,” she says.

“Did you think I left to go ask to rejoin the Crows?” He asks it teasingly.

“I know you better than that.” That silences him, and his shoulders fall slightly. Sometimes he thinks she knows him better than he knows himself. He takes her face gently in his hands, presses the kiss gentle against her lips. Her hand slips from his neck, over his shoulder, down his arm. Wrapping around his wrist, and even in the dark, even with his eyes closed, he knows the way she looks at him. A way he isn’t sure he deserves, but so desperately wants. Softly, quietly, with love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	293. Another Life (Alistair x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: maybe i'll see you in another life if this one isn't enough, alistair and warden plsss

He sits on the edge of the bed, feet planted against the floor. Elbows on his knees, hunched over, staring into the fire. His fingers knit together nervously, and he barely looks up when Alistair moves to sit beside him. The mattress sinks underneath his weight, and he sits so close beside him. Amell looks away from the fire, over his shoulder, at him. “Did we make the right choice?” he asks. Alistair sighs, and leans back, palms splayed against the mattress.

“I think so,” he says, “I mean, who knows what it’ll really do. Or what she wants with the soul of an Archdemon.”

“But what if it works?” Amell is turning, one leg folded over the bed, and looking at him.

“We’ve got Riordan here. It’ll be fine. We don’t need some creepy ritual,” he tells him. Giving him a lopsided grin, meant to reassure Amell, but he only frowns and looks away. His fingers play with the loose threads on his trousers, plucking free the stitching. Alistair reaches out, puts a hand over his. “It _will_ be fine.” He’s still frowning, but he comes to some sort of decision, and surges forward. Kneeling on the bed, a leg on either side of Alistair, wrapping arms around his neck. Alistair sits up properly, Amell in his lap, and wraps arms around his waist.

“I wish we had met sooner,” he says. “Somehow.” Alistair rubs his back in circles.

“I know. Me too.” Amell has his head on his shoulder. “I refuse to spend tonight thinking about anything else but you,” he says. Amell leans back, and his forehead presses against Alistair’s.

“That’s the most romantic garbage I’ve ever heard,” he says, and Alistair breaks out into chortling laughter.

“I mean it! I don’t want to think about tomorrow or what could have been – least of all _Morrigan_. I plan to make the most of tonight, thank you very much,” he says, pulling Amell in tight and close to him. Flipping them deftly, smiling as he captures his mouth with his own, shifts them to the center of the bed. Amell cups his face in his hands as he kisses him back, wraps legs around his waist.

“Alistair.” Pausing in the kiss, putting a hand over Alistair’s mouth. “What if Riordan – doesn’t make it?” A hand wrapping around his wrist, pulling him away from his mouth.

“We’ll deal with that if we have to. All I know is that I want to spend every second with you right now,” Alistair says. Bringing his hand to his mouth again, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I was planning on seeing you in my next life anyway.”

“What do you think you’ll come back as?”

“A mabari.”

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	294. Going Somewhere (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Going somewhere?” + “I’m not going anywhere.”

There was a certain unspoken understanding. She would curl up in her bedroll, and watch him leave. There was always laughter on his lips when he left, some meaningless parting words, but they both knew why Zevran could not stay. And when he finally did? When he finally could? Shifting to be near him, a smile on her face. A hand brushing against his cheek, turning his face towards hers. The kiss neatly planted, warmth calmly given, unspoken understanding. There was no fanfare towards it. No discussion. It simply was. Now, it can’t be anything else.

The tight bedrolls shared on the road to Orzammar. Sitting side by side in the tunnels of the Deep Roads, her head on his shoulder. The aravel in the Brecilian Forest, curled up in warm furs. The tent finally giving up on the way to Denerim, soaking him in rainwater. The room at the inn in Denerim, legs tangled up together, her arm thrown across his chest. Now, in Amaranthine, she sleeps in his embrace. Together, on their side, her back against his chest.

Zevran shifts, and Noya turns. Shifting in his arms, and her eyes don’t open. Fisting a hand into his tunic, and under the moonlight, he can see her frown. He smiles at the sight of it, kisses the knot between her brows. “I am going nowhere, _mi amor_ ,” he whispers to her. The frown eases, her hand settles. She keeps him close. He wants to be nowhere else, but by her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	295. Cold (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: it's cold, you should take my jacket. warden alistair pls i crave

Breath fogs out behind her as she stands outside the tent. Pulling the cloak tighter around her shoulders, holding out her hand, watching as snowflakes land in her palm. Red cheeks, a redder nose, the cold seeping down into her bones. He’s announced by branches snapping, stomping through the snow. The scarf is tied around Alistair’s neck, a pile of logs in his arms. With a heaving sigh, he drops them beside the fire, hurries over to her side.  

“I don’t think I’ll ever be used to this,” he says, “I am _freezing_.” Huddling close to her, shoulder against shoulder, shifting from one foot to the other. She gives Alistair an amused glance.

“As a lifelong Fereldan, you should be immune to the cold by now,” she says.

“Consider me the worst Fereldan then,” he groans.

“You can’t be the worst Fereldan, you love dogs too much.”

“It’s true. I at least have that in my favor,” he says.

“You have a lot of things going in your favor,” she says with a chuckle. His eyebrows shoot skyward and he turns to face her, stands in front of her. Arms around himself, hunching over to be level with her.

“Oh? Do go on,” he says, with a smile. She smiles back, claps her hands against his cheeks, rubs her hands against him, smooshing his face together.

“Not telling,” she says. He laughs as he reaches up, hands wrapping around her wrists, pulling her away from his face.

“No fair! You have to tell me,” he says, shifting to hold his hands in hers. He cups her hands, raising them to her mouth. Blowing warm breath, rubbing their hands together in an attempt to warm them.

“Mhmm, no, I don’t think I do,” she says.

“Then you’re going to have to keep me warm,” Alistair says. Slipping arms underneath her cloak, around her waist. He hugs her close, holds her tightly, and lifts her off her feet. Burying his face into the crook of her neck, against the fur hood that lines her cloak, groaning his appreciation of it. Her feet dangle, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he begins to spin them in place. She yelps as he falls backwards with her, planting them both into a snowbank.

She gasps as she pushes herself up, snow in her hair. He’s laughing as he’s half buried in it, his hands on her waist. She reaches beside his head, grabs a fistful of snow, and rubs it into the scruff he calls a beard.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	296. Slow Music (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: never knew i was a dancer.” pls and ty bb  
> \---  
> Modern AU

It isn’t much. It isn’t much, but it’s theirs. There’s a mattress on the floor. Most of the furniture will arrive tomorrow. They’ve been painting most of today. Emptied boxes of take-out, and they ate it with their hands. Their phones are charging in the corner. All that’s left is that old radio the previous tenants left behind. Static, and music that fades in and out. He’s pulled him to his feet when the music was bright, loud and happy. Slower now, and Mahanon wraps an arm around Dorian’s waist.

Pulling him in close, taking his free hand in his. Dorian has his arm around him as well, their faces close together. “I never knew I was a dancer,” Mahanon says, “but it turns out I’m excellent at it.”

“Are you now?” Dorian asks, chuckling under his breath as he’s given a dazzling smile.

“Well I haven’t stepped on your feet yet, have I?” They move in a slow circle, shuffle closely together. The music seems so far away. Slow jazz, and the slow press of Mahanon’s lips against his. The patio door open, and a breeze slips inside, bringing with it cool night air. A shiver, and Mahanon is kissing him again. And again. And again. “We live together,” he murmurs, as if he himself can’t believe it.

“Does it count if there’s no furniture yet?”

“Of course it still counts.” Such indignation in his voice and Dorian laughs. The voice on the radio is crooning in a language they both don’t know. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” Mahanon practically groans, “long distance was _awful_ and we’re never doing that again.”

“On that, we can agree,” he says. “Although, now that we’re living together, you’ll get sick of me faster.”

“Don’t say that.” His hands move to cup his face. “I could never be sick of you. I love you.” He proclaims it so boldly here, and everywhere else. He had shouted it across the campus common area months before, laughed in delight at the way Dorian had stiffened up. He was getting used to it, still. Showing it. Now, he thinks he could shout it back. Mahanon’s thumbs brush against his cheekbones, hold his face steady, and this kiss is far more forceful. Dorian reaches up, wraps a hand around his wrist.

“I love you as well,” he says, “ _amatus_.” Another dazzling smile, and a different song begins to play. Mahanon’s reaching for his waist again. They spend most of the night like that, quietly talking to each other, dancing without thought. Music slips out the open door, spills into the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	297. Temperance (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: ALISTAIR X COUSLAND PLS “You look like you could use a hug.”

She sits on the rock, one boot against it, the other planted against the ground. Sinking into soft dirt, and her brows are furrowed as she concentrates on pulling the needle through. Looping it soundly, piercing back into the fabric, back up again. Tugging on the thread, keeping the stitches tight and neat. She startles slightly, at sudden arms that wrap around her, a weight that drapes itself upon her back. Alistair rests his chin on the crown of her head.

“Hello,” she says with a slight smile, “what are you doing?”

“You looked like you could use a hug,” he says. Needle in her hand, shirt in the other, an arm resting against her knee. She puts her chin on his arm, goes back to her work. “Wynne could do that for you.” He says it so softly, means it kindly. The slightest shake of her head.

“I need to do it. I want them to see it.” It’s her nicest shirt. The one they’ve selected for her to wear. “With justice,” she says, “and temperance.” She had heard her father say those words so many times. She stitches the heraldy of house Cousland into the chest of the shirt, where it will sit, just over her heart.

“Howe is dead. That’s justice.”

“Part of it,” she says, “but I don’t know if I have the temperance for the rest.” Alistair stands up straight. He tucks errant strands of hair behind her ear, rests his hand at the nape of her neck. Standing beside her, kneeling down slightly to look at her.

“Whatever you decide, I’m with you,” he tells her. She knows he has her back – and it’s not in the way that the others do. A strange feeling, to know that whatever happens, he’ll still be at her side. He presses the kiss to her temple, a sure and steady thing. He means to leave her be, but she’s reaching up, a hand at his shoulder, pulling her back down to him. A proper kiss, fiercely given, warmly returned.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	298. Cheating (Alistair x M!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: i'll keep you warm and 18. it's late. shouldn't you be asleep? for warden/alistair pls i love you so much bafkdshlkfas

Alistair lets his head rest back against the tree. One leg bent, his arm resting on his knee. The other stretched out, his sword by his side. Closing his eyes, listening to the distance rustle of wings, the soft call of an owl. A breeze makes its way through the trees, and leaves loosened by its passage softly twirl and fall to the ground. He opens his eyes at the sound of a twig snapping, footsteps that come his way. Just in time to see Amell turn on his heel, practically fall into Alistair’s lap. Slumping down low, crossing his arms, he sighs deeply as he tilts his head back, rests it on Alistair’s shoulder.

“Isn’t this an unexpected surprise,” Alistair says with amusement, “here I thought you were supposed to be asleep.”

“This is the worst, you know. I don’t care how much _they_ all say I’ll get used to it. I never will. The ground is lumpy, the tent keeps nothing out and it’s cold.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t ask if this means you miss the tower.”

“Don’t even think about it. I just want a proper bed, warm blankets, and maybe even a fireplace. Is that so much to ask?” he says with another heavy sigh. Alistair bursts into a grin as he wraps his arms around Amell, hugs the man close against him.

“I’ll keep you warm,” he says. Amell snorts amusement, and he reaches a hand back, settles it against Alistair’s cheek. A brief and gentle touch, magic blooming in his fingertips. It’s liquid gold that spills through his veins, gentle heat that touches every inch.

“Pretty sure I can do a better job,” he says.

“Yes, but you’re _cheating_ ,” Alistair says. Amell laughs, and Alistair catches his hand in his when he goes to lower his hands. He presses a kiss against each knuckle, then folds his arms around him once again, and holds him tightly. A few moments of silence, and he was far more tired than he seems. Amell’s face is turned against his, head resting against his cheek, breathing quietly, peacefully dreaming. Alistair smiles, dares not move, and continues to hold him without fail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	299. Five Pieces (Iron Bull x Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hi! Same anon who asked about the asexual inquisitor and ironbull, I don't really have anything in mind I just really enjoyed what you wrote for zevran and asexual warden. I don't have anything specific in mind so feel free to run with it however you want and maybe make the inquisitor gender neutral? Again it's all good if this doesn't work for you, love your writing a tonne.

“This is ridiculous.” Iron Bull cracks his eye open, his hands still linked behind his head. He had been leaning against the wall, but now he shifts forward, looking over at the book in their hands.

“What is?” They’ve made themselves comfortable in his lap, their back against his chest, and their legs over his. They hold up the book, in both hands for Bull to see.

“It’s like no one checked their spelling or grammar. This plot is… nonsense. The characters personalities change on a whim. Not to mention they seem to be allergic to the word ‘said’. Everything is gasped this, or whispered that. How is this a best-seller?” They’re shaking the book as if the words might fall from the pages, form some sort of answer. Bull plucks the book from their hands, and tosses it expertly. Pages ripple as it goes out the window, a solid hit as it lands against the ground outside.

“I paid gold for that,” they say as they twist and turn in his lap, moving to face them. Hands on his shoulder, pressing their forehead against his. He rests his hands on their hips, gives them a grin.

“You want me to reimburse you, _Inquisitor_?”

“Five pieces.”

“There is no way a book cost five pieces.”

“There’s a tax for throwing it out the window.”

“You’re taxing me now? You’ve been hanging out with the wrong crowd, with that language,” he says. Wrapping his arms around them, hoisting them up properly into his arms. Their knees on his thighs, and they seem taller than him, here, now. The sun framing behind them, a halo all their own. He smiles up at them, a hand steadying at the small of their back. The light shines on every inch of them. Every bit he loves. Reaching up with his other hand, he gently pulls them down to him. “How ‘bout I pay you back some other way?”

\---

“This is not what I had in mind!” They yell over the roaring crowd at Bull. Skyhold is lit up with torches, laughter and shouting filling up the courtyard. Iron Bull cheers as Krem tackles the soldier, knocks them to the ground. A mighty roar goes up from the ones with coin on him, a cry of ‘get up’ from all the others. Krem twists the soldiers arm behind his back, a knee keeping him in place. The soldier taps out and the victory cry goes up.

“Horns up! Horns up!” Covered in mud, Krem is grinning as he hops the fence to join the others. Bull claps a hand against his back, and the Inquisitor deposits a hefty bag of coin into his hand.

“Cheers,” Krem says with a wink. “Drinks on me!”

“Who’s next!” Iron Bull shouts it into the crowd. “Who wants a round against the Bull?” The Inquisitor raises their eyebrows, quietly raises their hand. “Oh you are _on_ ,” he says with a laugh, and together, they jump over the fence and into the ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	300. Owls (Dorian x M!Lavellan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Can you hand me that?" For Mahanon and Dorian?

“You are getting wood shavings in our bed,” he mumbles hoarsely into the pillow, one eye half cracked open. Mahanon only grins over at him, goes back to what he’s doing. A hunk of wood clenched between his knees, his hand carving out a shape with the small knife. Dorian stretches, back arched, arms over his head, and rolls over to face him properly. Yawning as he brushes the sleep from his eyes, sitting up against the headboard.

“Can you pass me that?” Mahanon asks, gesturing with a sharp point of a knife at the prosthetic on Dorian’s nightstand. It’s a miracle he keeps track of it at all. He reaches over, and passes it to him. Mahanon lets the knife sit in his lap as he attaches it, this custom piece made for him. He always tests each finger, clenches his hand into a fist, to make sure it’s working. He raises his arm, gives Dorian a small wave.

“Thanks for giving me a hand.”

“Maker save me.” Mahanon only laughs as he takes up the knife once again, holds the wood in his hand. Dorian lets himself shift, fall, leaning against him, resting his head on his shoulder. He closes his eyes again as Mahanon rests his head against his. “What are you making?” he asks, half mumbled.

“Not another halla, don’t worry.” A small herd lines Dorian’s desk. “An owl, for Maevaris. I wanted to thank her,” he says.

“Mhmm, thank her?”

“She helped me find a birthday gift for you,” he says. Dorian’s eyes pop open. Raising his head from his shoulder, and Mahanon is smiling as he looks at him.

“I’m only slightly concerned…”

“It’s nothing outrageous, I promise.” He’s still smiling as he leans forward, brushes a kiss against Dorian’s lips. “I chose it. She picked it up.” It still worries him, every time Mahanon leaves the estate. The streets of Minrathous are hardly safe under normal circumstances, and these days have been far from normal. Mahanon kisses him again, and again, until that slight frown is banished. “I’m being careful, like I promised,” he says. He’s always been good at knowing what’s on his mind.

“Except you’re getting wood shavings in our bed, again. As I recall, that was another promise you made,” he says. Mahanon grins, and this kiss is fiercely pressed.

“Stop distracting me!” Dorian says as he begins to kiss back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	301. Gardens (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 18 from the smut list for fenhawke pretty please “You can be wearing a trashbag, and I’d still want you.”

She weeds as though she’s angry at the earth itself. She knows it’s her own fault, for letting it get so bad. So preoccupied with other things, she had forgotten to care for herself, her own home. Sweat on her back, hair haphazardly tied back. There’s a smudge of dirt on her cheek. Wrapping a gloved hand around the weed, tearing it free, throwing it with the others. Ruthlessly, she moves onto the next. Instead of landing in the pile, it strikes against legs. “Perhaps you do not need my help after all,” he says dryly, bending down to toss it with the others.

“Maker,” Hawke says, slightly startled, “I didn’t even realize you were there.” Moving from her knees, sitting back, throwing down the gloves and running her hand through her hair. Fenris smiles, chuckles slightly, sits cross-legged across from her.

“Bodahn let me in,” he says. “When you said you would be spending the day gardening, I did not realize it entailed… this.” Even he had to admit that it had gotten bad. Grass untamed, hedges grown wild. Barely contained by the estate, vines climb up the walls, curl in windowsills. The earth has become uneven, mud collecting where grass had drowned.

“Honestly it hasn’t been my first priority for a while,” she says.

“Clearly.” He laughs and catches the glove that’s hastily thrown at him. She moves forward, on her knees, reaching to snatch the glove back. Fenris holds it just out of her reach. “Do you have another pair? I didn’t come here simply to gawk,” he says.

“It’s fine, you don’t need to help, I can handle it,” she says, moving forward even more. He raises an eyebrow as she leans against him, and he wraps an arm around her waist.

“Why don’t you want my help?” he asks.

“Maybe I’m a little bit ashamed of it,” Hawke says, “besides, it’s my estate and my responsibility.” It’s very easy to keep her off balance, roll her over, and keep her pinned beneath him.

“You have helped me clean my mansion many times, why is this different?” Dark strands of hair between blades of grass, her hands beside her head. “And the others say _I_ am difficult.” She can’t help the smile that crosses her lips.

“There’s no point, it’s probably going to rain soon anyway –” It’s as though she calls it into being. The clouds that have been steadily growing now release their flood, soak them both to the bone. She laughs as he glares up at the sky, as though the rain is a personal offence. Taking advantage of his surprise, this distraction, she reverses their positions. Straddling above him with a smile, the glove left in the dirt, her hands pinning his wrists to the ground.

“We should go inside,” she says. Her grip is only just for show. It’s easy for him to sit up, adjust her lightly, and puts his hand at the small of her back. A knee on either side of him, and she’s wearing an old shirt. Something she cares nothing for, doesn’t fit quite right. Fenris looks up at her as she gently brushes away wet silvery locks from his face. It’s also quite easy for him to slip a hand underneath her shirt, trail up her back. Feeling the rain that runs down the line of her, over each precious bump of her spine.   

“I’m covered in dirt, and I’ve been sweating, and I –” he silences her with a kiss pressed against her lips. Despite her protests, she sinks into it, craves it completely. Hawke presses against him, her hand winding in his hair, the other brushing lightly against his ear. She massages the tip in the way she knows makes him squirm and he groans against her mouth. He trails that kiss down her chin, her neck. Her shirt is soaked into almost nothingness, and he can see the gentle pink of her nipples beneath it.

He presses a kiss to a pointed nipple, his hand at her other breast, feeling the now familiar weight of it. She gasps not at his touch, but at the lightning that cracks in the sky above them, and he chuckles as he feels her hands squeeze his shoulders. Arms wrapped around her waist, he looks up at her. “You are beautiful,” he murmurs, before he puts a hand at the nape of her neck, pulls her back down for another kiss. Rain clumps her hair together, drops pouring down her temple.

She cups his face in her hands as his hand brushes against her breast once again. Rolling it underneath his palm, and although the rain is cool, her kiss is warm. Her hand threads through his hair once again, her hips rocking gently against his. He holds her tight, keeps her close, and they both pause when lightning streaks across the sky. “We should go inside,” she says. He gives silent agreement, and rises to his feet, with Hawke still in his arms, her legs wrapped around his waist. Kicking open the door, and it shuts unceremoniously behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	302. Sparring (Cullen x M!Inqusiitor) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: alexi/cullen sparring leads to sexy times?? eyes plssss

“You still lack confidence in your blocks,” he says, easily knocking away the staff. Alexi steps back, holding the staff tighter in his hands. Cullen steps back as well, turning the practice sword in his hands. “You _are_ getting better. You just need to have that certainty as well.”

“Shall we go again?” Alexi asks. They’ve set up in one of the abandoned rooms of Skyhold. Far away from prying eyes, where others might see how terrible their Inquisitor is at close range combat. They’re well aware of Alexi’s other skills: healing unmatched, unbreakable magical defenses. Still, they prepare for the worst.

Cullen doesn’t want to admit exactly how much he enjoys these sessions. It’s time uninterrupted, far away from a crowded desk and piling reports. Not all of it is sparring – most of it is talking, discussing things not of the Inquisition. Alexi tells him about the food in Val Royeaux, the differences between it and something found in Redcliffe. He details the cool sands of the Hissing Wastes, the warmer water in the Forbidden Oasis. They spend so much time apart.

“What if I can’t use my echo?” Alexi asks as wooden staff meets wooden sword, “what if I’m silenced?” The blows resound in the room, empty but for the rugs laid across the floor. It’s the echo that allowed Alexi to see – a spread of magic, blanketed over object and person, the barest whisper of the vision he once had.

“It won’t come to that,” Cullen says as he strikes forward, to Alexi’s left. He turns swiftly on his heel, meets the sword, and abruptly turns it, forcing Cullen to rethink his positioning. Especially when the other end of the staff comes towards his face. Catching it with his hand, directing it towards the floor, striking with the sword once again. It’s caught at the tip, by a net made of magic.

“Why not? How do you know?”

“I’ll be there to protect you,” Cullen says as he bounces the sword back, catching it by the ‘blade’, swinging it round for the guard to gently bounce against Alexi’s shoulder. He expects Alexi to step back, as he always does when he’s caught. Instead, he steps forward. Using his height to his advantage, pressing down on his staff, bringing his foot underneath Cullen’s leg. He sweeps him from his feet, and Cullen lands heavy on the floor.

“Are you alright?” The staff falls immediately from his hands as he crouches down, reaching for Cullen, putting his hands on his shoulders. He doesn’t see the smile on Cullen’s face, but he feels his hand on his arm, the sudden turn, the press, suddenly caught underneath him. Cullen keeps his wrists pinned beneath his hands, shifting his weight.

“That was a good move,” Cullen tells him. His voice is near to him, his breath warm at his cheek. Cullen leans down low, his mouth at Alexi’s ear. Kissing the space between his jaw and his earlobe, and he braces himself against the floor with his elbow. His other hand is moving down Alexi’s arm, over his chest. He pulls the scarf from his neck, parts his robe. Alexi’s breath hitches as teeth gently bite against his neck, as Cullen’s hand moves over him. Ever down, finding the hem of his sweater, the shirt underneath, until fingertips brush against bare skin.

“I have _missed_ you,” Cullen says, his voice hoarse, cracking, breaking with desperation as his hand flattens against his belly. Peppering his neck in kisses, making his way upwards, against Alexi’s mouth. Weeks away, closing rifts and investigating leads. Only the occasional letter, some scouting report, to know that he is safe. An impossibility for Alexi to write letters of his own, needing someone else to read out Cullen’s letters. So they cannot speak the words they most want to say, want to tell each other.

Nose brushes against nose as they adjust, Alexi reaching upwards, a hand on the nape of Cullen’s neck. Holding him close while the other fists into his tunic, at his shoulder. Opening his mouth to him, pressing tongue against tongue. Wet and warm, they breathe each other in. An urgent desire to claim, to keep, to make up for time lost. “They’re going to send me away again soon,” Alexi murmurs, breathless between kisses, “I don’t want to go.”

Cullen’s hand traces the curve of him. Steady as he moves up Alexi’s waist, to his ribs. He always melts, underneath his touch. Comes undone, only for Cullen to put the pieces back together. There’s such a warmth to him, which burns so brightly, just there, flame beneath his palm. He would do anything to burn with him. Cullen leans back, and Alexi adjusts himself, allowing him to slip the robe from his shoulders. The sweater, off his head. The shirt, so loose against him, comes off easily. Alexi is moving his legs, from underneath Cullen, to wrap around him.

He puts his hands at Alexi’s hips, pulls him in close, as he bends over him once again. Those gentle bites at his neck, the harsher kisses over them. “I’ll find some way,” he sighs, “to keep you here longer.” Cullen will never forget their first night together. Memorizing every freckle, every birthmark, telling Alexi about his own body. He doesn’t speak it now, but he still flutters touch over every mark. A reminder that Cullen still knows him, wants him, thinks of him always.

He kisses his way down the bridge of his chest. Alexi is soft, softer than anything Cullen’s ever felt in his life. Watching the rise and fall of his breathing, quickening and Cullen kisses lower, against his belly. He marks a path across skin, the faint scent of soap, the salt of sweat from their sparring. The lacings of his trousers are easily undone, and Alexi turns his head, bites a knuckle, and breathes hard and heavy as Cullen’s fingertips trace the outline of his cock.

Cullen is sitting back, on his knees, one of Alexi’s legs on either side of him. The lacings fall against his belly, opened just enough to see the thin undergarments underneath. His thighs squeeze against him, as Cullen palms his cock. Moving lightly over top the undergarments, slipped inside the lacings. Alexi squirms at the touch, not quite the touch he wants. “Cullen,” he says, putting hands over his face, “I was hoping this would happen.” Cullen thinks his heart skips a beat at the sound of those words, knows what they mean.

A boot, another. One leg after the other, and trousers are tossed to the side. The undergarments come next, and Alexi’s hands clench into the discard robe beneath him, as Cullen wraps his hand around the base. Stroking Alexi’s cock, watches as pre-cum pearls at the top. His thumb moves over the slit of him, smearing pre-cum down the underside. A steady rhythm, until Alexi reaches out to him. Cullen leans forward, obliges the kiss he wants. Alexi’s hands fumble at Cullen’s trousers, distracted by the attention paid to him.

Cullen’s cock falls hard and heavy into his hand, already full of want. “Do you have –” a half asked question, and an answer given. Alexi takes one of his hands into his. Creation magic has always been fascinating to him, and it finds a use here that it might not have been meant for. Grease pooling in his palm, and Cullen reaches between them, touches at Alexi’s backside. A finger at his entrance, circling it lightly with the slick he’s made with his magic. Alexi bites his bottom lip.

“What if someone comes to check on us?” He asks.

“They won’t,” Cullen says, the first finger slipping inside him. His back arches, a hand wrapping around Cullen’s wrist as he continues to stroke his cock. Alexi’s heels press into the rug, his face turning. Cullen leans forward, nudges his face back, so that he can see him. He casts the barest beat of his echo. Enough to see the waves of blue that drift away from Cullen, wrap around him. Swallowing him up in his ocean, drowning him in their depths. Bringing him to the bottom, filling him up with new air. A kiss pressed against his lips, muffling the sound of his groan as Cullen adds a second finger.

Gently moving in and out of him, rocking back and forth, as his other hand still moves at his cock. It’s overwhelming, all of it, Cullen bent over practically in two so that he can press kisses against his chest. “Cullen.” The grip he keeps around his wrist tightens. A third finger, stretching him as best he can. No matter how prepared Alexi makes himself, Cullen always takes the most careful care never to hurt him. “ _Cullen_.”

Cullen’s hands move to Alexi’s hips. Alexi’s own hands curl near his face, and the echo, again, wanting so desperately to know what face Cullen might be making. Cullen takes himself in hand, lines himself up with Alexi’s entrance. Pressing against him slowly, pushing inside with a groan. Stretching out over him, and Alexi’s hands move to Cullen’s face. His lips, parted. His eyes, closed, eyelashes fluttering. Breath hot against his palm, a kiss that follows as he buries himself inside to the hilt. “Alexi,” he exhales, one hand still at his hip, the other elbow bracing him against the floor, his hand brushing against Alexi’s hair.

He begins to move slowly, and Alexi links his feet behind him. Still wearing that tunic, his trousers slipping halfway down his ass. Alexi curls underneath him, pulls him closer, closes his eyes and presses his mouth against his shoulder. Cullen’s fingers are moving in his hair, against his head, a comforting touch as his other hand bruises against his hip. He keeps the rhythm steady, that slick in and out. Filling him up completely, connecting them together. Cullen trails a line of kisses against his jaw, breathes hard and heavy. “I love you,” he says, and Alexi isn’t sure if Cullen even realizes that he’s saying it. “I love you, _I love you_.”

Alexi hugs him closer, holds him tightly. They rock together, Alexi’s toes curling as Cullen reaches between them. Wrapping his hand back around Alexi’s cock, matching each thrust. Alexi mumbles, murmurs something unintelligible, his hands trembling, and toes curling. Spilling against himself, and Cullen’s hand moves slowly down his cock, drawing out the last drop. “Where should I-?” Cullen asks it lowly, and Alexi keeps his legs locked around him, the wordless answer.

Alexi’s hands move to his face once again. Palms against his cheeks, the stubble underneath them, brushing thumbs against his cheekbones. Cullen’s heart pounds so loudly, he’s sure he might even hear it echo in the room. A low groan, his jaw clenching, eyes squeezing together and Alexi sees him. In his touch, that deep ocean. Cumming inside of him, dropping down to his elbows, laying over Alexi. Alexi slowly threads hands through his hair.  “I love you,” Cullen says again, clearly this time.

“I love you too,” Alexi says, before his words are swallowed up by the kiss. Cullen is leaning back once again, and he can hear Cullen taking off his shirt. After that, small dabs at his belly, cleaning up the mess they’ve made. Alexi laughs slightly.

“I think what I need to do will take more than your shirt. And now what are you going to do? Walk through Skyhold without a shirt?” he asks.

“I’ll just wear your sweater,” he says, clearly not having thought ahead. It only makes Alexi laugh harder, covering his mouth with his hand.

“Well it’s not like all of Skyhold doesn’t already know about us,” he says.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	303. Giggles (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: number 1 for the otp prompt with fenhawke??!! (Giggling like a child, without a trace of past sadness)

She stands with an arm crossed, elbow in her hand, fingers rubbing against her chin as she assesses the situation. Varric is leaning against the cliff nearby, practically doubled over in two as he wheezes with laughter. Merrill is doing her best to keep a straight face, but the giggle wobbles on the edges, and she can’t hide the dimples of her amusement. Fenris stands beside Hawke, the only one who’s just as silent as she is. He leans over slightly, words meant for her alone. “I did tell you,” he says.

She had thrown her bag into the bushes, expecting that was more than enough to hide it while they did their business on the Wounded Coast. Now it lies in pieces, raided by whoever had passed it by. Torn cloth, the tent ripped to shreds. Clothes, strewn about the camp. Potions smashed, food eaten. “Yes,” she says, “you did.” Clear as can be, she can still hear his words echoing in his head, warning her that it would be found far too easily. Hawke finally sighs, stomps forward, and begins to collect her things. She shakes out the sand, stuffs what can be salvaged into her arms. Such an angry huff in it all.

“You may share my tent tonight, if you wish. It will be cramped, but better than sleeping in the sand,” Fenris says, as he hands her a shirt he’s found. She adds it to the pile, holds it tightly.

“Thank you,” she says, “I’d appreciate it.”

As promised, it’s cramped. Not quite enough room to lie shoulder against shoulder, and so she rolls over onto her side, her back facing him. Curling her arm underneath her head, she almost doesn’t know what it is at first. A subtle shake. The smallest sound. She looks over her shoulder to see Fenris’s hand covering his eyes. It’s the wide grin that gives it away. He shakes with laughter, struggles to hold in the sound. He feels her roll over, face him. “The look,” he manages, “on your face. When we got back to camp.”

“How dare you laugh at me in a very fragile moment,” she says with a grin as she moves toward him, raps her knuckles lightly against his chest. His other arm automatically wraps around her, his hand flat against her back as she leans over him. “You’re not the one who had to retrieve their own knickers from branches before they flew away.” It only makes Fenris laugh harder. Hawke reaches upwards, pulls his hand away from his eyes, to marvel at bright green, teary eyed with amusement.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his words choked with giggles.

“Stop laughing,” she says as she begins to laugh herself, her head dipping down, resting against his shoulder. They have an ease, with each other, one they have worked towards. He doubts he’s ever been this comfortable with someone else, or will be. There’s no one that can make him happy like Hawke can.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, are we ready to go?” Varric asks, opening the lip of the tent slightly. He’s greeted to the sight of Hawke utterly draped over Fenris, her head against his and his arms around her. Legs tangled up in legs, her arm thrown over him. Holding tightly to each other in sleep, curled around each other. Varric quietly closes it, backs away.

“Are they having breakfast?” Merrill asks as she sits on the fallen tree branch, looking at him expectantly.

“Let’s give them a few more minutes Daisy,” he says, as he goes to sit beside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	304. Hard Feelings (Dorian x M!Inquisitor, Iron Bull)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Still heartbroken about the piece about Mahanon loosing his arm... I was wondering : did he ever resent Iron Bull for being the one to cut it off? How is their relationship now? Keep up the good work you perfect genius <3

The frustration is well marked in him. It exists in the many broken practice bows, the arrows that are strewn across the ground. The projects left unfinished, the projects which will remain that way. It’s in the furious scrawling on parchment, illegible writing, and letters given up on. It’s the lack of care he takes, after Dorian returns to Tevinter. His long hair had always been done up in an almost miraculous bun, the hair that escaped it deliberately done, but seemingly not so. Now he pulls it all over one shoulder, a tie at the edges to hold it all together.

Rather than tie up his sleeves, he has cut most of them off all together. The scar is something of a sight. The wound is cleanly cut but the green veins are jagged, the remnant energy of an anchor which has left its mark. He had pleaded with them, both times, not to cut it. First, held down on the bridge of Qunari stronghold. The second, in the middle of the Winter Palace, surrounded by mages and medics. First, below the elbow. Second, below his shoulder.

Skyhold is slowly emptying, but many of its denizens linger. The skeletal remains of an Inquisition once strong. The courtyard is quiet, hallways empty. Mahanon sits on the battlements, his legs dangling over the edge, leaning against a tower. Cold wind cuts through the blanket around him, turns his cheeks and nose a stubborn red. He watches the path away from the gates, and all the people that only go in one direction. Away. He did this, he knows. It’s better this way, but not – not for him.

“Hey Boss.” From behind him, and Mahanon looks over his shoulder. Iron Bull leans against the battlements, watches the same scene he does.

“Hey Bull,” he says. His gaze lingers, on broad shoulders and broader horns. Bull will be leaving soon as well, to seek further fame and fortune for the Chargers. He doesn’t want this to be it. Goodbye. He’s had enough of those, lately.

“I wanted to talk.” Mahanon finally looks away from him, leans his head back against the tower. Stone, against his temple. “I wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings. I know how frustrating it can be to lose something like that. Especially when you don’t want to lose it.” Briefly, he touches over the eyepatch.

“Were you angry at Krem after you lost your eye?” Mahanon asks, without needing to look to know exactly what he’s referencing.

“No.” Solid. Instant. Without regret, meaning it completely. He would lose the eye again, and again, and again, if it meant Krem by his side.

“The arm needed to go. You did that for me. No hard feelings,” he says.

“Boss, it’s –” Mahanon shifts, turns, looks at him.

“No hard feelings. Now catch me,” he says. Letting himself fall back, right into Bull’s waiting arms. Adjusting him onto his feet and Mahanon grins up at him. Whatever else he is, Mahanon is not one to hold a grudge.

“Hey,” Bull says, “can I do something for you?”

Mahanon sits on the bed in Bull’s room. His legs crossed, his back to Bull, who stands at the edge of the bed. Bull is undoing the tie at the end of Mahanon’s hair, gathering it all up. The missing joints on his fingers don’t bother him here, not as he loops all that hair together, ties it up, puts it in a proper bun for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	305. Owe You (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I know you didn't mean it, but it still hurts - from the Angst list, Noya to Zevran

“In truth, what I wanted was to die. What better way than to throw myself at one of the fabled Grey Wardens? And, this happened. And, here I am. I swore that I would never speak of it, but ah, simply one more thing you have wrangled from me,” he says. It’s usually him, never her. It’s Zevran who reaches for her hand to hold, who slips an arm around her waist. The seeking touch, the careful ease in which they exist with each other. He is the bridge. Here, now, Noya reaches for him first.

Fingertips tap at the back of his hand, slowly curl around. An easily broken touch, the slightest hold, and she steps forward, closer. Reaching upwards, and she tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Lingering, a palm against his cheek. Thumb running over his cheekbone, and he exhales so deeply, leans into her hand, and closes his eyes. “Whatever it is I sought by leaving Antiva,” he says, “I think I have found it. I owe you a great deal.” Murmured, softly spoken. Somehow, those words are a dagger, twisting through her insides. Her hand slips from his cheek, and his eyes open.

“Don’t say that,” she says, and she knows he didn’t say it to hurt. “You owe me nothing.” She had suspected, those first days, that he was not being completely truthful. It was luck, really, that he was only knocked out of the fight. If they had continued, would she have been the one to strike the killing blow? After all, he was an assassin, and had declared his intentions from the very start. She had seen his talent, after he joined them. His ferocity in battle, a focus of deadly precision. That ferocity was nowhere in the first. Such a half-hearted effort, and the reason for it now plain.

She would never have known. Him. Or this.

She would have lost him, before they had even a chance. She puts her forehead against his, wraps her arm around his waist. She holds his hand tightly. “Zevran,” she says, and she’s never been good at this, “I’m glad you’re here. With me.” He smiles.

“As am I, _amora_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	306. Apples (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: hey lisa! if you're still taking prompts would you be able to write a snippet of a f!hawke/fenris kidfic?

“Onions?” he says, pointing at the stall filled with them. Her hand in his, she shakes her head, wearing a wide grin. “Then, peppers?” Another point, another wild shake, delighted giggles slipping through. “Ah, mushrooms are to be your snack? An odd choice, but mushrooms it is.” She tugs on his hand, hers so much smaller than his. Wild laughter, another shake of her head, hair swinging back and forth.

“No! I want apples!”

“She finally speaks,” he says. “You are also missing a word on that sentence.”

“Please,” she says. A nod, and he lifts her up into his arms, sitting on his hip.

“You choose,” he says, as he walks them in front of the stall. Leaning over, allowing her to scrutinize each and every one, pressing some with her finger.

“This one. That. Please.” For each one she chooses, the stall worker happily bags it for her. Fenris hands over the coin. The worker hands the bag to her.

“What do you say?” he says.

“Thank you!” She clutches her prize, holds them close, as they walk from stall to stall. She proclaims her knowledge of them all, from potatoes to oranges, and rests her head in the crook of his neck. He rubs her back with his other hand, tucks stray stands of hair behind her ear.

“Tired?” he asks. She gives a slow nod.

“We’ll be heading home soon. It looks as though mother is also finished with her groceries,” he says, spying Hawke’s familiar face bobbing through the crowd.

Hawke puts a hand at the small of her back, over his hand, her other hand holding bags of her own. With a smile, she leans forward to give Fenris a quick kiss. “Hello loves, did you find what you were looking for?” With a proud crow and a triumphant nod, a bag of apples is held up and presented to her.

“We were thinking it was also time for a nap,” Fenris tells her. Hawke raises her eyebrows, and her smile is very much the same as her daughters. He takes the bag of apples from her, holds out his hand. Hawke shares the load with him, as they hold hands, the bags between them. They walk back together, his daughter’s arms around his neck, head on his shoulder, and his hand in Hawke’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	307. Scars (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you do Dorian finding the m!inquisitor crying/very upset- post trespasser dlc - after losing an arm.

He curls up in the windowsill. Bare feet against cold stone, colder glass. Looking down into the courtyard, and he feels so far removed from all of them. The sense of an emptying home, of darker days only he seems to notice. He moves touch over the scar that marks his brow. Up and down, so narrowly missing his eye. A deep thing, long healed, something he’d barely thought about since it happened. A foolishly gotten thing. Reckless, thoughtless, believed to be invincible. Unbreakable. He rests his head on his knees, and the clear view of the window becomes blurry.

Dorian carries books with him on the way back from the library. Skyhold’s library may be lacking, but there are also certain legitimately useful texts. He pushes open the door with his feet, climbs the steps into the Inquisitor’s room. “Can you believe I actually missed one on the different lineages of prominent Minrathous families? There’s bound to be something I can ruin _someone_ with,” he says, as he drops them all onto the desk. He’s taken up most of the space there, transcribing relevant information to take back with him to Tevinter. Regarding the pile of books, he fears he’ll need much more parchment than he has at his disposal. Ah, something to bother Josephine about in the morning.

A curious smile crosses his face as he looks at Mahanon curled up so. Legs bent, knees to his chest, head resting upon them, looking away from him. Long hair undone, messy down his back, over his shoulder. “Not talking are we?” Dorian asks he closes the distance between them, puts a hand at the back of Mahanon’s head. The smile turns to a frown when the touch makes him flinch. “Nan.” Mahanon finally looks at him. Biting a quivering bottom lip, tears streaming down his face. With a finger under his chin, Dorian tips his face upwards. Mahanon closes his eyes as Dorian gently cups his face, brushes away the tears with a swipe of his thumbs.

He lifts Mahanon’s legs, takes their spot. Squishing himself into that windowsill with him, Mahanon’s legs in his lap. He keeps a hand on Mahanon’s knee, watches as he brushes away the tears that refuse to stop. “What is it, _amatus_?” He fears that it might be pain. He knows all too well the tendrils of the anchor run deep. Even though it’s gone, its mark remains. Instead, Mahanon taps the scar over his eye.

“This was my fault. I was carving without paying attention, and trying to do something difficult. But the cut was stubborn, and I flicked the knife back at myself. I remember my vision going red, and I thought I had taken out my own eye,” Mahanon says, his voice wavering. “You should have seen everyone’s faces when I stumbled out like that.” Watery laughter. “But it was nothing. I was fine. Every time I got hurt since, I never worried. If I could keep my eye after something like that, then, I could make it through everything.” His hand drops, and his touch goes instead to a cut sleeve, the arm that abruptly ends just below the shoulder.

“I wanted to come with you to Tevinter. I know we’ve been arguing about it for ages, but I thought that if I could show you that I could protect myself, then – then it wouldn’t matter. And I could protect you. You could do your work and I could… be there. Now, we know there’s a war coming, and I can’t even hold my bow,” Mahanon says. There are half carved statuettes on the floor beside the desk. Things that he had meant to finish. His set of carving tools have been set aside, kept in a drawer. His bow remains untouched. The practice bows, however, see far rougher treatment. Most are broken now, an outlet of sheer frustration.

“I’ve spoken to Dagna. We’re going to work on a prosthetic together. Vivienne has volunteered her expertise, and the knowledge of the College. I’ll need time to get used to it, and to practice, and I’ll be ready. In time. I think,” Mahanon says. Dorian smiles, at his sudden look away, the slightest frown. Confidence, broken by sudden anxiety. Tears drying, nose still stuffy. Dorian reaches for his hand, raises it to his lips, and brushes a kiss against his knuckles.

“I do expect to see you in Minrathous soon,” Dorian says. “I know nothing will keep you away from me.”

“You’ve got that right,” he says as he grins, winds his hand in the front of Dorian’s tunic. Pulling himself forward, dragging Dorian towards him, and plants a fierce kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	308. Halla (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a friend

He sits cross legged and picks a long strand of grass between his fingers. The halla are slow to approach, but approach they do, carefully herd around him. Vines twist up old ruins, and trees have made their home in the remains of paths forgotten. A breeze sweeps up the side of the cliff, brings part of the river with it. This place wears its scars well. Wounds that will never heal, never be forgotten. Still, the halla bring their babies with them, and it’s easy to put the history of the Dirth to the side, for now.

Standing on sure legs, unsure behind their mothers. Regarding him as they chew on the grass, coming to some sort of decision about him. Walking forward, and Mahon stays still as they investigate his clothes, his hair. One puts a hoof on his knee, raises itself up, a cold snout at his cheek. After a moment, it clambers into his lap, curls up in the crook of his legs. Mahon plucks another blade of grass, presents it to the fawn. He remembers the teachings, bids the halla for its trust. The grass is accepted, and friendship given.

The halla look up at the intruder upon their earth. Pawing at the ground, flicking ears as they judge this one. Dorian walks slowly, moves carefully, and quietly takes a seat at Mahon’s side. Mahon smiles, and it seems his ease gives the rest of them calm as well. “You certainly do lure all sorts,” he says, “it’s almost a little frightening.” Mahon laughs as he rubs the nose of the one trying to eat the shoulder of his tunic.

“Frightening how?”

“Before we know it, you’ll be recruiting the Red Templars.”

“I doubt that,” Mahon says, the chuckle wrapping around each and every word. He carefully picks up the small halla, and promptly lays it in Dorian’s lap. It makes itself comfortable, folding against him, nibbling on part of his cloak. A wide grin bursts across his face at Dorian’s look of almost abject terror. His arms raised and away from it, as though he’s afraid to lower then, and Dorian is stone still. “It’s not going to hurt you.”

“That’s comforting,” Dorian says, looking between it and Mahon. Dorian’s always liked the sound of his laugh. Bright and unrestrained, as Mahon reaches for Dorian’s hand, brings it down to rest against the halla’s back. It looks upwards at him, such round dark eyes, and large expressive ears flutter. No horns yet to be found, its head smooth and soft. The first pet is slow, down its back, but finally, the hard line of Dorian’s shoulders ease. Relaxing into it, smiling even, as the halla rests its head on his thigh, and closes its eyes.

“I was apprenticed to the halla caretaker,” Mahon says as he shifts. One leg stretched out, the other bent, his elbow resting on his knee. “I helped deliver a baby, once. I was so scared it wasn’t going to make it, that I was going to muck it up somehow. But it was fine. Got right up on its legs and went to bother its mother for food.” The smile spreads across his face at the memory, and he lets his head rest against his hand, his gaze drifting to the halla in Dorian’s lap. “I was so worried it was going to fall over, that’s how much it wobbled. It leaned against my leg to steady itself as it drank.”  

“I’m sure the herd absolutely adored you,” Dorian says.

“I hope so.” It’s impossible not to know so. Who wouldn’t? Dorian looks down at the halla as it moves, standing, leaping from his lap. Circling back to its mother, weaving between her legs.

“If you asked, I’m sure Josephine would find some room for halla,” he says. Mahon puts a hand against his shoulder as he leans over, and laughs.

“Halla would hate Skyhold, I think. What would they even do there?”

“It was just a suggestion,” he says, and it only makes Mahon laugh harder.

“Yes, right, I’m very funny,” Dorian says as he playfully pushes him away. Mahon pushes back, and as their voices rise, laughter grows, the halla slowly drift, back down into the plain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	309. Anger (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Do you take one-shot requests? If you do I’m dying in my feelings right now and this would be wonderfully tortuous: “I keep on moving in the spaces you used to be” for Fenhawke? Bc you write them so fkn well

It has been growing in her. Twisting vines that curl around lungs, squeeze through ribs. It is marked in the tense line of her shoulders, the straightness of her spine. It has been watered and tempered by Meredith and Orsino, although, they are only the symptoms of the city. They anchor their weights to her, expect her to keep her head held high. She does. She tries. She loses her easy humor, loses herself in long moments of silence. The thin line of her mouth, the clenched fist. She doesn’t snap, but neither does she smile. She hasn’t in months.

She picks at her dinner, her elbow planted on the table. Hand at her forehead, leaning against it as she turns her fork endlessly in her potatoes. “They are already mashed Hawke,” Fenris says, and she looks up, startled out of her thoughts.

“Right,” she says, beginning to raise the fork to her mouth. It stops, almost there, and she sighs as she puts it back down. Instead, she leans back in her chair, lets her finger circle the ring of the glass.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he says, looking at her intently. She goes to deny it, at first. Her mouth opens, then closes without speaking, and a dark cloud forms on her brow. She shakes her head, as if arguing with herself. She goes to stand, pacing back and forth, and the glass in her hand.

“Meredith is openly taunting me now. Today, she – in front of a crowd – she told everyone how it was a mage that killed my mother.” Hawke’s voice begins to rise, and her steps quicken. When the storm comes, it comes quickly. It bursts with thunder, crackles with lightning. “How I couldn’t save her! After she let herself be bribed by DuPuis, and didn’t take Emeric seriously. She didn’t catch him, she didn’t care, and she doesn’t have the _right_!” Without thinking, she slams her hand down against the counter. Fenris leaps to his feet, the chair falling back behind him, as glass shatters underneath her palm, water spills onto the floor.

Hissing pain, she pulls her hand to herself, looks at the blood starting to rise. Fenris runs a cloth under water, and she’s beginning to turn, pick at the glass on the counter. “Leave it,” he says, and holds out his hand towards her. She lets her hand rest in his. He scrutinizes it first, makes sure there’s no glass in her skin. Only then, does he softly sigh.

“It is easy,” he says, “to be angry.” He dabs the cloth against her hand, brushing it gently across her palm. “It becomes comfortable. A second skin. Perhaps, you think this anger might protect you from being hurt.” Not in the way the glass cuts. “It becomes so familiar, that you cannot remember feeling any other way.” He knows those twisting vines well. The anger that chokes, that clouds everything else, because – better to be angry, than any way else. He doesn’t want her to become the person he was.

“Be angry, but do not let it become comfortable. You… helped me, when I was that way. Now, let me help you. All of us. You think you are facing this alone, when you are not,” he tells her.

“I –” she says, unable to give voice to thought.

“You are not troubling us by asking for help. You are allowed to want things for yourself. We are your friends, and we also want things for you. Good things. I would like to see you smile again,” he says, giving her a smile of his own. She looks at him so hopelessly, so lost, and for a moment, her eyes water, but she is squeezing them closed. When she opens them again, her eyes are clear.

“Will you come with me to Meredith’s office tomorrow?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says, without hesitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	310. Falling (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I found you "looking like an angel" for male Hawke and Fenris.

His eyes open slowly, he blinks painfully. Light seems almost too bright, and the figure above him is almost glowing. Soft touch moves through his hair, against his head, and he’s only vaguely aware of the hand on his chest. Blinking, again, and again, the world slowly coming into focus. He realizes that his head is laying in Fenris’s lap. “Hello,” he says. At the sound of his voice, Fenris looks down, stray white hair moving across his forehead. Hawke doesn’t miss the slightest relieved smile that quirks at the very edges of his lips.

“Hello,” Fenris says in return. His hand is still moving in Hawke’s hair. Slow, circular touches, careful pressure, gently applied. His hand on his chest, palm over his heart, as though he’s counting every beat.

“So what got me? I thought we finished off all the bandits,” he says.

“You slipped on a rock, and fell,” Fenris tells him dryly. That gets an even wider smile from him, knowing now that Hawke is fine.

“Don’t laugh, that’s cruel.”

“Your arms wind milled, and all your trinkets flew out of your pockets.” Alright, he has to admit that is pretty funny. Hawke chuckles, followed by a wince.

“Are you alright?” Fenris asks, amusement having turned to grave concern in an instant.

“I’m fine. Just a headache,” he says, closing his eyes again. He feels gentle touch brush away hair from his forehead, the slip of his hand against his cheek. Distantly, he can hear the others talking to each other, having set up camp already. Hawke knows he could probably get up, but he’s content to simply lay here, for another moment. Perhaps maybe more.

Fenris leans over, his forehead almost touching Hawke’s. “You should be more careful,” he says.

“Why, when I have you to cradle me when I’m hurt?” There’s no response, and Hawke doesn’t dare open his eyes. Retribution comes when Fenris pinches his nose, and Hawke grins, reaching up, a hand around his wrist, gently tugging him away from his face. “I know, I’m sorry, I’ll be careful,” he says.

“Mhm.” Fenris doesn’t free himself from Hawke’s grasp. Rather, he lets his hand slip, move to hold his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	311. Ears (Dorian x M!Inquisitor) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: In that case I have a request for a certain elf who has very sensitive ears, and an admirer who finds out and exploits it

He bites his bottom lip, but can’t hold back the grin. It bursts free and wild as he winds his fists into his tunic, and presses him back against the wall. Stepping forward, closing all distance between them, legs between legs, body against body. Looking up at him, and he licks his lips as his gaze drifts from Dorian’s eyes, betrays intention of the kiss. Nose brushes against nose, and long lashes move as Mahanon looks back up at him, so brightly green, intently wanting. He’s still smiling as he finally moves in for the promised kiss.

Dorian’s hands settle on his hips, wrapping around his waist. Mahanon moves easily with him, swaying with the kiss. “I have,” Mahanon says, breath warm and voice light, “ _missed_ you.” He makes it obvious how much so. Hands flattening against his chest, moving upwards. Slipping to his nape, fingers curling against his hair, as Dorian gently guides him backwards. Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, opening his mouth to him, tongue touching against tongue. The back of Mahanon’s legs touch against the bed, and he quickly flips them.

Hands on Dorian’s shoulders, pushing him down to sit on the bed. “I should have come with you,” Dorian says, pulling him closer by his hips. A steady smile on Mahanon’s face as he braces himself against him, a finger gently tracing the shell of his ear. He leans over, hair held precariously back in the messy bun, and cups Dorian’s face in his hands.

“And here I was, thinking you’d hate to be tramping through the Fallow Mire again,” he says.

“I do hate the Fallow Mire,” he says, “but it does get terribly boring here.”

“Oh? And it’s not just because I would’ve been there?”

“Awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Mahanon laughs as he leans down, briefly touches his forehead against his, before going to his knees. Against the floor, between Dorian’s legs, his hands moving to his thighs. Dorian brushes touch against the sweeping lines of his _vallaslin_ , over his cheeks and chin, upwards against his bottom lip. Mahanon playfully nips at him, taking his tongue into his mouth. Nipping at it again, before turning his head, pressing the kiss to his palm.

“You like it,” he says as deft fingers find the lacings of Dorian’s trousers, begins to undo them.

“I do,” he says. Mahanon grins up at him, then turns his attention back to what he’s doing. Lacings loosely undone, and he puts his mouth against his inner thigh. A flash of teeth, closing his eyes, his hands moving up and over his legs. Dorian’s hands clench at the edge of the bed as Mahanon moves his face over his cock, warm breath through trousers, against the bulge of it. Hands moving down his thighs, undoing his lacings completely. He wraps his hand around the base of his cock as he pulls it free, and fuck, he smirks with such delight at how hard he is.

Green eyes flick back upwards as he begins to stroke him, his face near the head of him. Breathing through his mouth, warm and low, full of anticipation. His cheeks color slightly, a shade of want, and Dorian reaches back down again, fingers curling against his cheeks. Mahanon smiles at that, and when Dorian pulls his hand back, he runs his tongue from the base to the tip of him. Long and slow, taking his time with it, swirling his tongue around the head of his cock.

Cheeks hollow as he takes him into his mouth, his hand still wrapped around the base of him. Short strokes, meeting against his mouth, slowly taking him farther. The flush on his cheeks blooms, eyes closing, as he loses himself in what he’s doing. Dorian’s legs tremble, and he tilts his head back. Eyes open wide before squeezing them closed, as Mahanon pumps him perfectly, surrounded by the deep, wet heat of his mouth. His tongue is never ceasing, swirling and moving, completely maddening.

Tipping his head back down, watching the bob of Mahanon’s head, and he reaches out and messes his hand into his hair. So much of it, so barely held. It’s magic of his own, made with that tie. He wants to loose it all, see it fall. Instead, he moves to push some of it back behind his ear. He stays there, fingers rubbing over the pointed tip, down the shell of it. Back up to the tip, massaging his ear and he does notice the sudden stillness of Mahanon. That is, he’s still until he leans back, hands clenched in Dorian’s thighs, gasping out an utterly guttural moan, his whole body shuddering and shaking. Dorian’s eyebrows shoot upwards.

“How did I never notice this before?” he says excitedly, as he pulls Mahanon up from where he’s kneeling. Leaning him back against the bed, his hair splayed over the mattress, face red under the vallaslin as he looks up at Dorian. Dorian’s hands slip down over his chest, to his hips, notice his cock straining against his trousers, the wet seeping against it. Undoing lacings quickly, as Mahanon hooks fingers into Dorian’s tunic. Undressing each other utterly and completely, and Dorian’s weight settles gently over him.

Mahanon squirms beneath him, hands scrabbling at his back as Dorian’s tongue playfully presses against his. A deep kiss, not enough to distract him from the way Dorian strokes his ears, the shiver making its way down his spine. Legs curl around him, pull him close, Mahanon’s cock twitching with the closeness of release. Dorian leans back, watching his pulse beat through him. This time, it’s him that smirks. “You have no idea how it feels,” Mahanon says hoarsely.

Kneeling on the bed, Mahanon’s legs around his waist, Dorian presses his cock against his. His hand wrapping around the both of them as he leans back down, to take the tip of his ear into his mouth. Stroking their cocks together, the thrust of his hips meeting his hand, pulling Mahanon’s earlobe between his teeth. Mahanon’s hands wind behind his neck, unable to stop the flow of desperate moaning, the gasps, heavy breathing, as his back arches with each flick of Dorian’s tongue. He thrusts up into his hand, against his hip, winds his hand into his hair.

“Creators,” Mahanon babbles, “Dorian, please. _Vhenan_ , I – fuck, fuck, _fuck_ – please, Creators, mercy.” Dorian moves to flutter kisses against his cheeks, over the lines of vallaslin. Dipping across his chin, his mouth, his nose and forehead. Fingernails dig into Dorian’s back as Mahanon makes his final gasp, that last shudder, spills himself completely over his belly. It doesn’t take Dorian long to follow, lured so by Mahanon’s own pleasure. Dorian lets his forehead rest against his.

“You can be sure I’ll be putting _that_ knowledge to good use,” he says.

“You’re terrifying,” Mahanon tells him. Dorian laughs, arms wrapping around him, not caring of the mess equally made, holding him close as he kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	312. OC Kiss Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Multiple One-shots written for OC Kiss Week on tumblr.

  * OC Kiss Meme
  * Rynezion
  * Iraine Surana & Noya Mahariel



Her hand, over hers. Not quite touching. Close enough to touch, if they wanted to, the occasional stray brush of fingertips against an inner wrist. Between their palms, something akin to lightning, closer to thunder. “Strange,” she says, “how different it feels.” They both pull back their hands. Nearby, in the clearing, Dandelion takes a swipe at Bear. The two mabari playfully dance around each other, dash towards each other. They wear a path in grass, tramping through wildflowers and weeds.

“Different?” Iraine asks, looking at her palm. Her magic is still close to the surface. It hovers with ease, careful control. Noya leans back on the hill they sit on, elbows in the grass, a heel pushing into the dirt. Iraine sits cross legged, straight backed, wind blowing softly through short hair, sun warm on her skin.

“Compared to Morrigan, or Wynne,” she says.

“What does it feel like?” Noya tilts her head as she thinks.

“I don’t think I have the words,” she admits with a breath of amusement, “but dangerous, in a misleading way. Wynne is more like soft blankets – where what you see is what you get. Your power hides. You’re closer to someone I used to know.” Her gaze drifts from the mabari back to Iraine, watching as she closes her first, lets it fall into her lap with the other.

“Oh?” It’s easy to see how her magic might not be seen as deadly, at first. That assumption is also quickly swept away when others see her fight. She doesn’t forget what stains the hill behind them. It’s how they found each other, in the first place. With quiet determination, Iraine had grabbed the closest darkspawn, put something of her own making into it. Turning it around, sending it back to its brethren, watching as it betrays the others by standing near. When it explodes, it takes the others with it. Noya, at the edges, with shield and spear, herding all the rest towards their death.

“She is of the Dalish. Clever, just as you are. Have you never wanted to seek them out, now that you are free of the Circle?”

Iraine looks over her shoulder at her, briefly smiles, and shakes her head. “I’m happy where I am now, and where I’m going,” she says.

“Fair enough.”

Bear rolls over onto his back, and Dandelion sniffs at his face, circles him. Flopping down next to him, face resting over large paws. Noya pushes herself up from the dirt, brushes it off. Standing in front of Iraine, she extends a hand. Gladly, she takes it, and Noya pulls her to her feet. Collecting her spear, her shield, as she says, “I should be getting back. I am sure there are others who are missing you. I hope you find no delay in getting back to them, although I fear for any who might stand in your way,” she says.

“You too,” Iraine says with a smile.

“Be safe,” she says, putting her hands on Iraine’s shoulders, “and be well.” She leans forward, pressing a soft kiss against her cheek. Then she is turning, disappearing back into the tree line, Bear quickly following after her.

* * *

 

  * OC Kiss Meme
  * Lynngo-art
  * Rémi Surana & Alexi Trevelyan



Alexi leans over, holding tight to his staff, his head very near Rémi’s. He listens quietly, intently, as Rémi reads aloud from the book, his finger tracking under every sentence. A nod, reaching for the bottles that line the shelves. There are no letterings. Simply raised bumps, shapes. A thumb over each one, and Alexi pulls down what they need one by one. Rémi reaches for the small knife, helps him cut the herbs into proper sizes. As they work side by side, they speak of things no other might understand. Of Circles lost and found, and all the things, the people, that go with it.

“I’ll let you know if our scouts find any sign of him, although I doubt the Wardens missed much,” Alexi says.

“And Varric still hasn’t said anything about him?” Rémi asks, trying to pry as gently as possible. Alexi smiles.

“He’s being quite stubborn.” Rémi sighs as he puts the knife to one side, gathers the cut herbs together. Placing them into the mortar in front of Alexi, giving him a tap on the back of his hand to let him know that it’s ready. Alexi grinds them with the pestle, into a fine paste. Rémi reaches for a small case to put the poultice in. As all Circle mages tend to do, Alexi adds his own flair to the potion. In his case, it’s a touch of mint, sweetly scented, just enough.

“That should take care of it,” Alexi says, “although it would probably be faster if I took a look at it.” Just standing near him is soothing. He exudes the softest healing magic, what he needs to see. It creates a calming circle around him, and all of Rémi’s lingering aches simply lift, and evaporate. Rémi covers his mouth with his fist, coughs out small embarrassment.

“It’s fine, I can take care of it,” he says. He had only mentioned that Zevran had pulled a muscle. He didn’t say where, or _how_. Alexi chuckles under his breath.

“Make sure to massage it in well,” he says. Rémi sighs acknowledgement. They leave the workshop side by side, the poultice settling well in Rémi’s pocket. All of Skyhold steps out of their way, with respect for the Inquisitor and Warden-Commander.

“What were your plans for this evening?” Alexi asks.

“Nothing in particular. Perhaps some light reading,” he says.

“I believe those plans _might_ be interrupted.”

“Oh? What have you heard?”

“Iron Bull challenging Zevran to a drinking contest,” Alexi says with a smile. “I believe we’re going to be invited to participate as well. I hope you have a high tolerance.” Alexi doesn’t see Rémi’s furrowed brows, pursed lips. He does _not_ have a high tolerance. 

“We’ll see,” is all he says.

 

Six drinks deep, and Rémi is flagging. He slings an arm over Alexi’s shoulder, pulls him down, and presses a sloppy kiss against his cheek. Then he’s folding his arms, resting his head on top of them. The snores come shortly after. Iron Bull and Zevran are laughing, smashing their mugs together before they down their fill. Alexi sips politely at his, sitting between Rémi and Cullen. Cullen watches them down drink after drink with a sort of impressed disgust, while Alexi quietly pats Rémi on the back. He makes a note to visit their room in the morning, and offer to get rid of their hangovers.

* * *

  * OC Kiss Meme
  * Rennybu
  * Mahon Lavellan & Mahanon Lavellan



He flashes a grin as he matches his pace, the halla’s hooves hitting the ground hard beneath him. A bow slung around each of their shoulders, a quiver of arrows on the saddle. A grin returned, and Mahon is taking the bow into his hands, moving easily with the rhythm of the halla. Pulling an arrow from the quiver, and Mahanon is doing the same from his. They ride side by side until the target comes into clear sight. Then Mahon is off first, with Nan close behind. Firing the arrow, and then the other. Pulling the halla round, down into a trot.

Nan hops off of the saddle, makes sure to give the halla a hearty rub first, before going to the target. He crosses his arms as he looks at both of the arrows, Mahon soon making an appearance at his side. Their halla graze together, and both arrows have found the center. Both arrows side by side, couldn’t be closer. “Well,” Nan says, “I suppose that has to be a tie. Disappointing.” Mahon puts one hand on his shoulder, the other at his own chest, as he throws back his head and laughs.

“We can try again later,” he says. Mahon moves back to the halla, his hand drifting over the back of one. He has a pleased smile on his face as he does, as if simply being around them is happiness enough.

“You’re good with them,” Nan says, “the halla.” One, still chewing on grass, looks up as he approaches. “I’m never sure if they like me or not.” It steps forward, as if understand his words, its face near his. At first, he thinks he might be getting a kiss, but then the halla is reaching past him, trying to chew on the stray wisps of hair escaping Nan’s bun. He steps back instantly, gestures wildly for Mahon’s benefit. “See?”

Mahon’s laugh is bright and crystal clear, leaning against the halla. “I think they like you. Like enough to eat,” he says. Nan smiles as he pets the halla, long strokes down its snout, between its horns and its eyes. Soft and luscious, completely content.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you chose Dirthamen for your _vallaslin_ – why? Would you change it, now?” Mahanon’s is full faced, green of June. Mahon’s is a mixture, a spread of three, coming together to make one. Him. His finger traces the lines down his nose, fingers curling at his cheeks.

“At one time, I wanted something different. A mixture of my parent’s _vallaslin_. A part of each,” he says. Nan nods gravely. He understands completely. “I still think Dirthamen suits me best.” The pursuit of knowledge. Loyalty, faith in family. It all still rings true.

“I’m sorry for prying.” Mahon waves his hand, a dismissal of offense. None taken, and forgiven. Nan moves forward, taking his hand into his. Scrutinizing his finger, and the grin bursts across his face once again. “I like it,” he says, the colored _vallaslin_ around his finger. Letting go of his hand, he pulls at his tunic, shows Mahon his own _vallaslin_ , running down his chest. “It seems we both couldn’t keep ours contained.”

“At least mine is just my finger, not my whole body. I can’t imagine sitting still for all of that.” Nan makes a grimace.

“It wasn’t the most fun time I’ve had.” Mahon chuckles as he walks past him, pulls the arrows from the target. He holds one out for Nan to take.

“Speaking of fun – should we go again?” A grin, a nod, reaching out and accepting the arrow.       

* * *

  * OC Kiss Meme
  * Pegaeae
  * Mydha and Tam Mahariel-Arainai & Nere and Suri Mahariel-Arainai



A pair of identical faces look back at them. They stand facing each other, fingers entwined, and the heraldry of their mother’s house on the bands around their arms. Hair wild and curled, freckles as thickly dotted as stars on the night sky. One carries knives and an indifferent glance. The other, a staff on her back and a smile on her face. That’s the one who approaches, her hands outstretched, reaching for theirs. Taking one of Mydha’s, one of Tam’s, smiling brightly between them. “Welcome,” Suri says, “we’ve heard so much about you.” She looks over her shoulder, still holding their hands tightly. “Nere! Come and say hello.”

She wavers where she stands, so hesitantly so, and she wraps a tight grip around the hilt of one of her knives. Walking stiffly forward, standing just behind her sister. A polite nod, one for each of them. Mydha lets the smile fall easily to her lips, happily holding her hand. Tam is somewhat less enthusiastic, but doesn’t pull his hand away. “We’re glad you answered the letter. Anora wasn’t sure if you’d come,” Suri says, giving both their hands a brief squeeze.

“Having a mortalitasi will be useful,” Nere tells Mydha, and Tam guesses that’s the nearest thing to a compliment that they’ll receive. The warmth of Suri’s hands fall away, back to her side, but not before a brief touch at Nere’s shoulder. A tap, a simple reminder. Be _nice_.

Mydha walks through them, around them, turning as she goes, looking up at the high ceilings of the palace. Her steps echo on stone floors, resound throughout the empty hall. Nere watches as she goes, while Suri steps closer to Tam. “You’ve had your _vallaslin_ done,” she says, some sort of wonder at the edges of her words.

“And you haven’t,” he says. She grins, puts her hand at his arm. A casual and comfortable touch.

“I’m still deciding. _Mamae_ always left it up to us,” she says, “was it painful?” He shrugs.

Nere is shadowing Mydha’s steps, as she walks around the hall. Her fingers travel over the carved statues of dogs, the engraved murals of the walls. Twisting wood, stone bent to mortal will. It is no excessive Orlesian tower, or does it resemble the comfortable lusciousness of Antivan homes. Ferelden is as it is, and Denerim is no different. Sturdy and built, meant to last. It has seen much, will see more. “Is there anything fun you like to do in the city?” Mydha asks, pausing in her steps, turning to look at Nere. She seems almost taken aback at being talked to, a conversation unexpected. Her grip tightens on the hilt and she shrugs, looks away.

Mydha clasps her hands behind her back, smiles as she walks forward. Close, in her space, and she chuckles under her breath. “There’s nothing you like to do?” she asks.

“I – enjoy reading,” Nere says. Such a solitary activity.

“Nothing else?”

“Perhaps… training.” Mydha’s eyebrows rise.

“Tam is excellent with his dagger. The two of you should spar together. Suri and I can discuss the magical aspect of what Anora needs us to do. After all, if we want to be more effective, we should know each other’s strengths and weaknesses,” she says.

“It isn’t a terrible idea,” Nere says with a nod, her glance slipping over Mydha’s shoulder to where Suri and Tam are talking with ease. Suri is brightly laughing, expressively punctuating each word with a gesture of her hands. Tam is caught along with her, her infectious excitement at a growing circle of friends. “Perhaps we should rescue your brother from my sister.” Mydha turns, laughs at the scene.

“He can manage,” she says as she steps closer, “perhaps you should worry about yourself.” Nere takes a step back and Mydha laughs that much harder.

* * *

  * OC Kiss Meme
  * Daydreamingdragonage
  * Hela Lavellan & Mahanon Lavellan



“ _Ma’falon_! Higher this time,” he calls out to her, pulling back the string of the bow. “ _Min’elvyr_!” She laughs as she raises her staff, pulls the magic into her fist. Channeling it through the wood, down the very cracks of it, focusing it through the crystal. Three chunks of ice spit high up into the sky, each taking a different trajectory.

“How’s that for easy!” She shouts, cupping a hand around her mouth, voice travelling over the field to him. A grin on his face as he looses one, another, and another. All three find their mark, the center of the ice, shattering them into a thousand sparkling pieces.

“ _Min’elvyr_ ,” Mahanon says again, turning back to face her, the bow falling to his side. Self-assured in his smile, confident in his walk back up to the battlements, and to her.

“You’re cheating,” she says the moment his face appears. He laughs, takes the last two steps in one, and leans against the battlements, same as her. Staff rests beside bow, a quiver of arrows at their feet.

“And how exactly am I cheating?” Hela makes a muted, mumbling noise, shrugs her shoulders. His arms crossed, he tips himself over, the side of his head resting on the top of hers. “You’re just sour because I won our bet,” he says. Hands flying upwards, shooing him away from her, she moves to the other side of the battlements with a grin.

“I’ll get you back,” she says. His grin turns into a grimace.

“It better not involve Sera. Dealing with one of you is bad enough, I’m afraid what the two of you together might come up with,” he says.

“Something awful, I’m sure,” with the same sort of self-assurance he held earlier. He pushes himself away from the wall, to her side, looks over into Skyhold’s courtyard. His eyebrows rise when he spots the figure making their way towards them.

“Speaking of Sera,” he says, casting a glance towards Hela. She waves down at Sera, pleased pink in her cheeks, a delighted smile on her lips. Mahanon looks between the both of them, straightens his stance, and then wraps an arm around Hela’s waist. He tips her back, folds with her, both of their faces disappearing below the battlements, where Sera can’t see them.

Hela holds onto his shoulders for dear life as he asks her, “Do you think she’ll fall for it?” Hela raises her eyebrows.

“With the way you look at Dorian? Not a chance.” 

* * *

 

  * OC Kiss Meme
  * Gaysparkler
  * Ludwig Cousland & Alexi Trevelyan



He has his head in his lap, his eyes closed, hands linked over his chest. Laying down on the couch, his legs half dangling off the armrest. A gentle touch, at his head, as Alexi weaves small braids into his hair. Smiling as he does so, finding a sort of easy peace in the rhythm of it. Ludwig, for his own part, is almost half asleep. There’s a warmth to Alexi’s presence, the sort of thing you can feel without having to touch. He opens one eye, notices the sun beginning to dip. A growl in his belly, and Ludwig is reaching upwards, finding one of Alexi’s hands.

He allows his hand to be tugged, Ludwig flattening his palm. It’s ticklish, at first, the way his finger writes against Alexi’s palm. Swooping letters, a longer sentence. Alexi waits patiently for him to finish, intently listening to what he’s saying. He chuckles and the smile spreads across his face. “I’m hungry too,” Alexi says, “It’s only a matter of time before you hear my belly.” Ludwig grins, writes something else. Invisibly done, pleasantly read.

“No, I don’t think we have that. I’m a little afraid of what the Wardens might be serving you. Mystery stew doesn’t give me much confidence,” Alexi says. Ludwig chuckles to himself, and then writes something else.

 _It’s surprisingly good_.

“It’s not the taste I’m worried about, more the ‘mystery’ aspect of it,” he says.

 _I’m pretty sure it’s pork most of the time_.

“Maker,” Alexi says, shaking his head. Soundless laughter as Ludwig pushes himself to sit up properly, running a hand briefly through his hair. The braids are here and there, without rhyme or reason. A little skewed, a little messy, but Ludwig doesn’t mind. “We can go down to the kitchens and actually asked for pork.” Alexi reaches for his staff as he stands, waits for Ludwig. He takes Alexi’s arm, linking them together, and guides Alexi’s steps.

It gives him easy access to his palm, where he quickly writes. _Thank you for letting us stay_. Alexi softly smiles.

“It’s an honor to host the Warden-Commander,” he says, and steps a little closer to him, puts his head nearer to his, “and his husband.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	313. Liebling (Cassandra x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I found you prompts: In a pool of your own blood for Cassandra Pentaghast and Female Warrior or Rouge Inquisitor

Sitting slumped against the rock, her chin at her chest, and the dagger is still in her hand. Dust and ash sweep through the grass, over rubble and the charred remains of the demons that once were. Her other dagger is discarded, lost among dead things. Things that were once held together by strange magic, bone and old leather. No longer. Cassandra crouches down very near her, putting her own sword aside. The arrows have pierced through her armor. Fletching made of forgotten feathers, shaft of the same bone and leather, strung by the same magic. Her hand briefly passes over them as she raises fingers to her chin, tips her face upwards.

Eyes slowly open, wavering as they long to remain closed. Vision blurry, taking time to come into focus. There’s a stain on Cassandra’s cheek, sweat on her brow. Such worry in the way she holds herself, concern in the frown of her mouth. Something sweeter, in her gaze, when Lavellan smiles at the sight of her. Relief in the drop of her shoulders, sudden slack given to stiff limb and straight back. Cassandra sighs softly but the worry still beats as sure as her heart. Wrapping her arm around Lavellan’s waist, the other pressed against her chest, around that arrow.

She helps her to her feet, Lavellan’s arm practically limp over her shoulders. “I knew you’d find me,” she says. Her steps are unsteady, and Cassandra dips for a moment, carrying her completely in her arms. Lavellan lets her head rest against the crook of her neck.

“You should not have gone off on your own,” Cassandra scolds. Another smile, as Lavellan closes her eyes once again. She can tell how carefully Cassandra is walking, how she plans her steps, her every move. Doing the utmost not to jostle her, not to cause her any further discomfort.

“Sorry Cass. Won’t happen again,” she says. Her only reply is a muffled, muted, noise, made of sheer disbelief. Vivienne’s hands are cooler than Cassandra’s, however softer. Cupping her face, and she knows she’s being scolded again, but this voice isn’t as clear to her. The cot is somehow less comfortable than Cassandra’s arms. She knows something is removing her armor, cutting around the arrow. All she really knows is that Cassandra is still beside her, brushing back the stray hair stuck to her forehead.

Her hands are calloused with the practice of weapons. Her touch isn’t as delicate, not quite so gentle, but Lavellan wouldn’t have it any other way. Vivienne’s magic is much the same as her hands. Icy and cool, frost in the ribs of her. Cassandra wraps a hand around the shaft of the arrow, pulls it free when she’s told. Lavellan cries out, reaches upwards, and Cassandra is there to catch her.

“Easy,” she says, in a voice meant for only her, “it is almost done. Easy. Lie still, _liebling_.” Her hand brushes back hair yet again. This time, it lingers. Fingers curling at her cheeks, palm warm and sure. Lavellan isn’t sure if she dreams it, but what a sweet dream it is, to have Cassandra’s lips pressed against hers.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	314. Mija (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a friend

He isn’t sure what wakes him, at first. Perhaps some dream he can’t quite remember, or it’s from the bundle of warmth squirming in his arms. The stray cats of Darktown have made their home with him, good indicators of danger, hungry mouths that devour every last scrap of food he has to give. Anders rubs at his eyes briefly, before he notices the shadows shifting. A figure moving at his workbench, taking potion and poultice from his cabinets. Anders sits up instantly, reaching for the staff beside his bed. A cat underfoot, making its way towards the intruder, and when he turns, Anders lets his hand fall back to his side.

“Is it time?” he asks. Zevran nods as he walks forward, presses the bag into his arms. Filled with all the things he might need, his robes already laid out neatly on the box beside his cot.

“My apologies for waking you, but she can be quite insistent, as you know,” he says. Anders waves away his concerns as he stands, shrugs the coat over his shoulders.

“Let me just leave a note for Hawke,” Anders says.

“Already done.” Zevran steps aside, presents the parchment that’s nailed to his desk. Written neatly, but there’s a shake around the edges, a hint of the anxiety he’s trying to hide. Anders takes up his staff, the bag slung over a shoulder, and locks the door behind him. Not that it matters. Together, they walk through the dim dark, past low burning fires and waning moonlight. Passing through the gates of Kirkwall, trekking up towards the mountains.

“How is she?” Anders asks. Zevran barks sudden laughter. He’s walking faster than Anders, his steps short and quick, betraying his urgency to be near her.

“Ah, you know the way she is,” he says, “the same as always. Beautiful. Very impatient.” Anders hurries his own pace, in an effort to catch up to him. There’s a nervousness to Zevran, yes, but of a specific sort. Biting back the smile that threatens his lips every few minutes, the almost skip of his step. Excited. Wanting.

The elves guarding Sundermount say nothing as they pass. A respectful nod as they step aside to allow them both to pass. The sun is beginning to stretch across the sky, banish the moon to its proper place. The camp is still sleeping, and those who are awake are barely so. All except for one.

Lyna has her hands on her hips, a scowl on her face, as she walks outside the aravel. She circles it, wears a beaten path into the grass, against the ground. Tilting her head back as she breathes, a grimace as she leans forward again. A hand against her swollen belly, she glares at the two of them. Zevran’s steps quicken as he goes to her side, extends his arm for her to take. Through a grimace, clenched teeth, she accepts his help, her hand bruising a grip into him. “It took you long enough,” she snaps at Anders. “Let’s get this over with.”

Zevran gives Anders a grin, and he receives a hopeless glance in return. Lyna reaches out, her other hand wrapping around Anders’s arm, dragging them both towards the aravel with her. “This could get messy,” Anders says to Zevran, “did you want to wait outside?”

“He’s staying.”

“I’m not leaving.” They both speak at exactly the same time, their words overlapping each other. Anders shrugs as he’s yanked up the steps, inside. True to his word, Zevran doesn’t once leave her side. Her hand tight around his, squeezing without mercy. The camp slowly begins to truly wake, going about their usual activity, casting the occasional glance towards their noisy aravel. They break their fast, devour their lunch. It’s almost time for dinner when a different cry arises from the aravel.

Squalling, a high pitched and wavering scream. The pains of newness, the unfamiliarity of all that surrounds her. Anders washes her off, brushing a wet towel against red cheeks. Ten fingers, ten toes. Everything where it should be. A soft wave of his magic, and her crying slowly begins to quiet. He wraps her in a blanket, a move practiced many times with the babies of Darktown. Lyna and Zevran watch him all the while.

Anders moves to pass the tiny bundle to Lyna, but she raises her hands, points to Zevran instead. Zevran reaches out instantly, gently taking the baby from Anders. Once the baby is settled with Zevran, Anders moves to attend to Lyna.

Zevran pulls her close, holding her carefully. A squirming thing, so soft and fragile. Eyes that don’t open, hands that wrap around the blanket. A head of thick dark hair, pointed ears that poke through. Zevran sits down with her in his lap, and he can only stare at her. It starts suddenly, unexpectedly, overwhelms him completely. The dam bursts, and the tears roll silently down his cheeks. The smile doesn’t once leave his lips. He leans forward, his forehead gentle against hers.

A tiny hand wraps around the braid loose at his temple. He lifts his head slightly, to see a gaze looking back at him. Bright and amber, a mirror of his own. The smile renews itself. His. Hers. “ _Mija_ ,” he whispers to his baby, “ _mija_.” Here, in his arms, in this place, all the things he thought he’d never live to see. All the things he thought were never meant for him. With delighted and watery laughter, he brushes his nose against hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	315. Alone Now (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> self indulgent thing  
> teenager, 80s au

A small noise, at his window. Another, and another. The familiar sound of a rock hitting glass. Fenris sighs as he pushes his chair away from the desk, undoes the latch of his window. Crossing his arms, leaning on the sill, he looks down at the figure there. She waves at him, before stuffing her hands in the pockets of her jacket. Standing in the light pouring down from his bedroom, and she’s chosen the one bright spot in an otherwise dark yard. “Come on,” she calls up to him, “let’s go.”

“I have practice in the morning,” he says. Hawke rolls her eyes as she turns in place, wearing a familiar circle in the grass. Finally coming to a stop, bottom lip stuck out, and eyes wide and sad. She doesn’t hold the fake pout for long. She turns pleading quick enough, shifting from foot to foot.

“Yes, but this is going to be actually fun,” she says. “Come on! Put on something good and get down here.” Fenris shakes his head as he disappears back inside. She pulls out one of the plastic patio chairs and throws herself down into it. It sinks underneath her weight, and she tips her head back. The distant glow of streetlamps hide the stars blinking above, and besides the occasional passing car, it’s almost completely quiet.

She looks back up when the light of his bedroom finally flicks off. Fenris slips himself through the opening of the window, begins to climb down the trellis. He hops off at the bottom, runs a hand through his hair. He tells the others he doesn’t know how she convinces him to do these things. As she pushes herself up from the chair, all scuffed sneakers and grins, freckles and messy hair, he knows exactly how. “Where are we going?” he asks as he follows her over the chain-link fence, through the forest shortcut behind his house.

“You’ll see,” she says. The bus they take is mostly empty, except for a few other stragglers. Sitting side by side, shoulder against shoulder, knee against knee. She drums her fingers over the chair in front of them.

“I’ll be in trouble if I’m late for another practice,” he says.

“I don’t know why you don’t just quit. Ballet is stupid,” she says.

“It is not. And you know why,” Fenris says. She sulks back in the seat, hands stuffed back into her pockets. It’s the jacket she inherited from her father, worn leather and thrice-patched elbows.

“Your step-dad sucks.” His only response is a small grunt of agreement, and he leans back the same as her. She instantly lets her head fall to his shoulder, that stray piece of dark hair crossing over her face. He swallows hard, looks out the window. Forgotten raindrops travel against the glass, stutter step their way across. Street light after street light, and he’s half startled when Hawke suddenly leaps upwards, hand tugging down on the cord to signal the bus driver to stop.

Following her out into the thickness of the city, far from the quiet of their suburbs. Down twisting streets she seems to know by heart, and she pulls him by his jacket inside an unmarked building. He’s instantly swallowed up by the heat of it all, the thickness of so many bodies packed into one place. Smelling of sweat and salt, bright lights flash overhead. The music pounds in his eardrums, and he’s grateful for the hand still fisted in his jacket, otherwise he might have lost her in the crowd.

“You’re going to have some actual fun dancing,” she says, having to shout in order to make herself heard. They find themselves a space in the middle, pressed together by all the others around him. One song switches to another, and her hand falls away from his jacket. Her arms raise up in the air, eyes closed and a smile on her face, as she begins to move to the beat. He keeps his arms close to his side, looks at everyone around them.

“Fenris,” she says, reaching out to him and taking his hands in hers, “stop thinking this is ballet. Let go.” Her hair flies around her face as she shakes her entire body, shoulders moving, body bouncing. She’s moving his arms with hers, trying to pull him into her beat. He knows all the _proper_ moves by heart. A graceful sidestep, the perfect penché. His entire body held in controlled movement, and this… this goes against it all.

One of her hands travels up his arm, settles over his shoulder. She’s laughing as she presses herself close to him, trying to pull him into her scattered rhythm. “I think we’re alone now,” Hawke sings along, “there doesn’t seem to be anyone around. I think we’re alone now, the beating of our hearts is the only sound.” No panel of judges, no teacher. No one watching from the sidelines, no audience to question his every step. Just Fenris and Hawke, alone in the crowd. Their other hands are still entwined, and the smile spreads across his face as he begins to slowly move along with her.

Not caring if his legs are in a perfect line. Not wondering if his body completes the line. Only the music beating into his eardrums, the lights, swaying along with Hawke. Losing track of time, and her jacket ends up tied around her waist. His does as well, around his own. Sweat on his brow and on his back, and Hawke sings along to the odd song, barely audible, shouted enthusiasm. Holding onto each other, trying not to lose each other, and he wraps an arm around her waist as they laugh together.

On the bus back home, her makeup is ruined, face glistening. Hair sloppily tucked behind her ears, jacket still around her waist. She closes her eyes as she slouches down, puts her head on his shoulder. Their hands are clasped between them. Fenris smiles, and rests his head over hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song mentioned is I Think We're Alone Now by Tiffany  
> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	316. Protective (Fenris x F!Hawke)

She’s emptied. There is no magic left inside of her. Yet, she steps forward, steps in front of him. She means to take whatever comes for him, bear the brunt of the blow. “Go,” she says, “I’ll find you later.” The sword has never felt heavier in his hands. Rain slick, mud under his feet. They had come upon them without warning. In puddles that ripple with each drop, they cast a red glow. These Templars have lost their minds, filled and cracked with blighted lyrium. He and Hawke had fought their way through many. More still remain.

He could not stop all their blows. His ribs ache, lungs struggle to hold breath. Rain bounces off his armor. Blood washes over his feet, all from the single blow at his side. It doesn’t matter. He pulls Hawke back, holds her behind him, and raises his sword. The beast stands before them, a hulking behemoth twisted by what they had fed under their skin. No longer recognizable as a person. She’s emptied. There is no magic left inside of her. He will protect her. “Fenris,” she says, oh so quietly, and so very near him. She puts a hand on his arm, feels it tremble.

The behemoth roars, raises the mangled red of its lyrium rock arm, and Fenris knows he won’t be able to block it. She drags him back. Without warning, no way to stop her, he stumbles back, falls to the ground. Looking up at her standing tall, and she raises her hand. The barest flicker of a barrier, a glancing blow, the spatter of cold mud and rain that flies upwards. The staff in her other hand, the crystal of it flickering low, bolts that drive the beast back, but do not defeat it.

He’s told her, before. How useful he is to stand at the side of a mage, a magister. A lyrium battery, refilling that which may be empty. Over their years together, he had given her every sordid detail. How kindly she had listened. How quietly she had held his hand. How softly she had promised, without speaking the words, to never do such a thing to him. To never allow such a thing happen to him ever again. He had sworn it once, as well, to himself. He leaves the sword on the ground as he rolls over, pushes himself up onto his hands and knees.

He wavers as he stands, pressing touch against his side, blood dripping through his fingers. Going to her, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Take from me,” he tells her hoarsely. He doesn’t need to explain. She glances at him briefly, eyes wide with horror, before she shakes her head and turns her attention back to the behemoth.

“No. I can keep it at bay. You need to run,” she says. It’s recovered from its miss. It cries out at the feel of Hawke’s bolts against it, but it’s raising that arm again, using it as a shield as it walks forward. There will be more. There’s always more.

“If you will not do this, then run with me,” he says. They both know he can’t run. She feels the wound the same as he does. She slips an arm around his waist, gives him something to lean against. Lean he does, mud in his hair and his head on her shoulder. “Marian. Do it.” She holds him tighter, closer, her knuckles white around her staff. Rain runs down her temples, drips off her eyelashes. The behemoth is raising its arm yet again, and she’s clenching her jaw.

It was always the sensation of something being ripped from him. Desperate to hold onto it, never able to keep it. She asks permission of him, his markings. He gives. He gives so easily, so readily, and this is not a tear. A sigh, a whimper, a gift being given. Red lyrium lands solidly against her barrier, sparks with anger. With a thrust of her staff, the heave of magic from within them both, lightning splits rain drops and finds its center within the Templar.

He’s only vaguely aware of being half carried, half dragged. Her arm is still around his waist, his over her shoulders. His feet slip in the mud, over rocks, and she keeps him steady. Fenris thinks he might hear the sound of the voice, or perhaps it’s the distant thunder, speaking a want to all the world. He shivers, and he knows he’s sitting somewhere. His back against her chest, and she has her arms wrapped around him, a leg on either side of him. Dimly, he knows his clothes have been changed, his wound dressed.

She threads a hand through his hair, presses a kiss to his temple. “Hawke,” he says, his eyes still closed. She must have found them a safe place. The crackle of a fire, the warmth in her touch.

“I’ve healed you as best I can,” she says. Her other hand is on his chest, over the tunic, over his heart. Her palm pressed so tightly against him, her thumb moving slowly in affectionate worry. He doesn’t know if she even realizes she’s doing it. “There’s no healer around for miles, so we might be stuck here for some time, while you recover.”

“Hawke,” he says again. He wonders how long he’s been asleep. Time enough for her to recover – she radiates magic, once again filled to the brim with it. “I’m alright. You saved us.” Those rolling fingers through his hair suddenly stop, and her palm moves to his cheek. Curled around him, she holds him protectively.

“You should have run,” she says, “don’t… make me do that again.” He wishes he could have told her sooner. Fenris knows she’ll have been torturing herself with the thought of having taken the lyrium from him.

“It didn’t hurt,” he tells her. “It was you.” Her breath catches, and she goes quiet. He’s gone back on so many things he’s told himself. All the things he thought he’d never do, never have. She’s changed that for him. He rests his hand over hers, his thumb moving over her knuckles.

“Fenris,” she says, and holds him tightly. He smiles, in her embrace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	317. Pride (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

He doesn’t intrude past the doorway. His ears remain flattened, the glare fixed. Mahanon forces himself not to take a step further. His grip tightens around the limbs of the bow, slung over his shoulder. He keeps his gaze fixed on the solitary figure, the statuesque posture that he keeps. Dorian paces in and out of the side of his vision, until he stops, turns slowly. Facing his father, and, “you tried to _change_ me.” Something squeezes in his chest, at the sound of hurt that invades every syllable of Dorian’s words.

“I only wanted what was best for you,” Halward argues, taking a step forward, towards him. Mahanon does as well, to Dorian’s side. Perhaps a magister doesn’t fear a simple elf, or the quiver on his hip. Still, here he stands, and does not falter.

“You wanted the best for _you_! For your fucking legacy! Anything for that!” the accusation is spat, and accepted. Halward lets the anger roll against him, off of him. Dorian is turning again, away from his father, pressing his palms flat against the counter of the tavern. Halward now turns to Mahanon, as if there was any hope of him helping.

Mahanon goes to Dorian, puts the smallest touch against his back. “I think it’s time we left,” he says.

“I agree,” he says. Halward, for his part, says nothing. Simply lets him leave, watches him go. Dorian doesn’t spare a glance in his direction. Mahanon closes the door behind them.

He has to race to catch up to Dorian, whose quick pace is given by angry steps. Experience tells him not to speak. They mostly follow the main road, but Dorian takes them over hills, through paths unpredictably worn. Eventually, Dorian’s pace begins to slow, the stiff line of his shoulders falling. They walk beside a field of wheat, the stalks of it swaying in a breeze. “What did he think that would do? Showing up here, trying to trick me. I half expected him to try and drag me back to Tevinter by the ear.” A pause, a sigh. “Once I would have given anything to have him be proud of me,” he says. Muttered. Muted. They’re words meant for no one, but Mahanon hears them nonetheless.

“You left your home and everything you knew to come and warn the Inquisition. You stopped Alexius from manipulating the Southern Mages, and Dorian – you weaved together a spell to bring us through time. While there were demons breaking down the door and I was being an idiot. You’re _amazing_. I know it doesn’t mean much, coming from me, but I’m proud of you,” Mahanon says, a hand pressed against his own chest, the other reaching out to wrap around Dorian’s wrist.

His steps finally stop. Turning to look at him, the hopeless and small smile on his face. “It means more than you think,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	318. Parched Earth (Fenris x M!Hawke)

It’s Hawke, of course. Hawke, who uses an earmarked page for a bookmark. Hawke, who leaves the blankets messy, because he’ll be going back to bed anyway. Hawke, who eats with his fingers, who tosses scraps to the dog. Hawke who leaves his shirts at the end of the bed, whose method of deciding what to wear is a quick sniff. Hawke, whose laughter comes easy to his lips. Hawke, who allows him to linger in a carefree embrace, who has shown him the tenderness of a smile. Hawke, who is still teaching him even more. The reason for this nap, the reason he naps at all, is Hawke, of course.

The shades are shuttered, but still, sunlight beats at the back of the cloth. It fills the room with something gentle, low warmth. It settles in Hawke’s hair, the messy curls which frame his face. Fenris reaches out, careful fingertips that move through Hawke’s beard. He follows the curve of his jaw, moving back over his cheekbones. Down the strong line of his nose, extra time spent against the birthmark that colors his skin.

A rare gift, to see him so. At ease, without terrible direction. Fenris leans a little more into his pillow, shifts a little closer as the smile quirks at the edges of his lips. It came with no great thunder, no grand flood. He, the parched earth, and Hawke, the rain that softly swelled, and filled each crack. Fenris had looked at him one day, and knew, in the very bone of him, that Hawke was where he was meant to be. Who he was meant to be with. He likes himself better, at his side. He likes everything better, at Hawke’s side. Given permission, Hawke’s rain had become a burst dam, hurrying to surround him in his waves.

Fenris draws his hand back, clenches his fist against his chest, careful not to wake him. He’s content to simply watch him, listen to the soft sounds of his dreaming. Their legs remained entwined, Hawke’s arm thrown over Fenris’s waist. There was a time where the idea of staying in bed would have caused him to recoil. Some unthinkable thing, some waste. But this, this is no waste. Fenris moves closer, quietly. The touch of his lips ghosts against his. His forehead almost, but not quite, touches his. The smile lingers as he closes his eyes, allows himself to fall back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	319. Rough Palms (Zevran x F!Warden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: OTHER prompt list : Letting them warm their cold hands under your shirt.

He sits on the ground, bare feet and heels pressed into the dirt. His trousers are undone, the shirt slipping off his shoulder. The needle and thread in his hands, the concentrated frown between his brows, his shoulders hunched as he neatly stitches the hole at the toe of the sock. The smallest amount of surprise when he feels her touch at his shoulder, and she moves to sit behind him. Her feet slip under the bridge of his knees, her arms around his waist. She rests her head against his shoulder blades and closes her eyes.

“And what is this, hmmm?” He asks, feels her shift closer.

“I am,” she says with a sigh, “tired.” His ears twitch at the sound of those words. Noya does not make it a habit to air her grievances, her complaints. He pauses in his stitches, puts down the needle and thread. Her head moves with the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the steady breath of him.

“Are you sure you would not like the tent better?” She doesn’t answer, simply finds his hands with hers, and gives them a small squeeze. He smiles at that, as though she’s too close to sleep to waste energy on words. Her palms are calloused, touch cold. Her fingers are dry and rough, knuckles bruised. Nails chipped and bitten, a healing scar at the edge of her wrist.

He shifts the way their hands are, so that he holds them instead, slips them underneath his shirt. Pulling her arms tighter around him, her hands flat against him. He exudes heat, as naturally as the sun gives off light. He’s carried Antiva with him, and perhaps he might have done it for her. She curls around his warmth, hands settling. Rough palms. Dry and cracked. Imperfectly perfect. “Sleep well, my Warden,” he says quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	320. Duties (Isabela x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: 40. Making a goofy face until they notice and laugh. for Hawke x ?

She tells her not to go. She listens, because she always listens, and goes anyway. Dutiful Hawke, answering the call of her city. The least she could do is come along. Meredith narrows her eyes at the sight of her, flitting behind Hawke. “I thought this would be a meeting between the two of us, Champion,” Meredith says, as Isabela walks around her office, hands clasped behind her back.

“Anything you say to me, you can say to Isabela,” Hawke says. From behind Meredith’s desk, Isabela smiles. Meredith stands before it, in front of Hawke, drawing herself up to full height and crossing her arms. She still isn’t as tall, as imposing as Hawke is. Not that she means to do it. She towers over almost everyone, wide and broad, and the staff at her back more a club than focusing tool.

“Very well,” she says, narrowing her eyes. The glare, and all the disapproval contained within. “With the tensions rising within the city, there must be a semblance of order. Having an apostate doing what she pleases without oversight is not ideal.”

“For Kirkwall, or for you?” Hawke asks. Behind the desk, Isabela is picking up one of Meredith’s tacky statuettes. Looking over at Hawke, making a disgusted grimace, holding up the figure for her to see. Hawke’s eyes flick briefly to her, the smallest ghost of a smile, quickly composing herself and looking at Meredith.

“For both.” Meredith is still talking. Isabela is still judging her office. Holding up each and every one for Hawke’s benefit, a face to match. An accepting nod for a certain book. A fake puke for the grossly colored quill. Eyes lighting up at a small portrait on the wall, taking it from where it hangs. Eyes glittering with the prize, Isabela bursts into a grin and hides it behind her back. Hawke moves to say something, catches herself at the last second. “Are you listening to me?”

“No ma’am,” Hawke says. Meredith’s face grows hot with fury.

“Thank you so much for this lovely meeting, so productive as usual,” Isabela is saying, craftily slipping the portrait to different parts of her body so Meredith doesn’t see, as she slips her arm into Hawke’s, begins to drag her from the office. “Bye! Don’t invite us again!” Meredith will. She always does. The door slams shut behind them.

“Did you steal a painting?” Hawke asks her in a low whisper as they hurry away from the Gallows. Isabela passes it to her, throwing her head back and laughing.

“Do you think she had that commissioned? Who keeps a portrait of themselves in their own office?” Grim and proper, wearing that fucking helm of hers. A perfect replica of Meredith’s signature snarl. Hawke joins her in laughter, still arm in arm, the portrait between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	321. Sugar and Cinnamon (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: "You’re so, so, so pretty.” any couple? :3c

A strange sense of wanting, wanting him, unsure of if he even knows. Patiently impatient, he wavers between the days, the hours, and the seconds between them. Of needing him now, of needing to wait. A chance it will be as all the rest: a night, a single crystalized moment. A breath, suddenly exhaled, never to breathe that same air again. A chance it won’t be as all the rest: a night, and the night after that. A breath, deeply inhaled, solemnly kept in blood and lung. So he takes a step forward, another step back. Mahanon smiles at him, a reckless grin, and Dorian feels that pain, a pang, the rattle in his ribcage against the unknown.

They find rooms in Val Royeaux. Some impromptu trip, some meeting he needs to go to, people he needs to see. He’s not quite surprised at the knock at the door. The instant he opens it, Mahanon slips inside. He’s carrying a plate in one hand, the already half eaten pastry in the other. Mouth full with chewing, he simply puts the plate on the table and turns back to Dorian as he closes the door behind him. “If you get crumbs in _my_ bed, I will not be happy,” Dorian tells him. Snorted laughter as Mahanon swallows, wipes his mouth, and licks his fingers.

“It’s not like I came here just to eat,” he says.

“Oh? Then why did you come?” He knows the answer before he takes a step forward. It’s in the smile, the way he reaches out towards him. An arm settling over his shoulder, fingers that thread through his hair. He tastes like apples. Cinnamon. Sugar. Leaning against Dorian, swaying against him, as he wraps arms around his waist. Mahanon walks him backwards towards the bed. Nose brushes against nose as he moves, eyes closed and tongue moving against his.

Dorian sits, leans against the headboard as Mahanon settles above him, and straddles him. A knee on either side, pressed into the pillow, the mattress. Hunched over, holding Dorian’s face in his hands. Dorian reaches upwards, finds the tie of his hair. It rains down like a waterfall, spilling over shoulder and back. Running his fingers through it, and Mahanon subtly grinds his hips against his. Dorian opens his eyes, briefly. Enough to see long lashes, the hint of green _vallaslin_ at the edges. Pleased and pleasured pink in his cheeks, under olive and freckle.

His hands slip from his face, move over Dorian’s chest. They go not to his, but instead to the hem of his own shirt. Dorian doesn’t want to break the kiss. Hand tangling in his hair, a fist full of it, holding to the nape of his neck, keeping him close. A breath. A warm exhale. Exchanging touch, lip against lip, tongue against tongue. Breath they share, breath they won’t get back. Mahanon is pulling his shirt up, and still, Dorian doesn’t break it. The slightest move back, and he pulls him back in. There might’ve been a huff of laughter in that kiss. The shirt still moves, and Dorian finds it pulled over his head, resting over his own shoulders. Surprised, it finally breaks.

Mahanon leans back, a smug curl of his lips. There’s a candle on the bedside table. It flickers low, warm light against his skin. Dorian can only look up at him. He’s seen the vallaslin at his throat, of course. He didn’t imagine it would ever go further. Mahanon’s shirt still hangs over Dorian’s shoulders as he reaches up, begins to trace the lines. Over collarbone and chest, wiry muscle, stomach and hip. He shivers, gooseflesh igniting under his touch. Dorian drags his eyes away from the vallaslin, back up to him. His hair frames his face perfectly, pointed ears peeking through. Lips red from attention, a sureness in the way he holds himself.

He’s beautiful. Devastatingly so. Not just the way he looks, but the way he _is_. That pain, a pang, the rattle in his ribcage.

“I can’t go further than this tonight,” Dorian says, his voice coming out hoarse, cracked. A step forward. Another step back. Mahanon only smiles, and pulls his shirt off of Dorian, tosses it to the floor. Touch moving back to his face, brushing over Dorian’s cheekbones.

“Fine with me,” Mahanon says, his tongue tracing over his lips, finding the sugar he planted there. Biting his bottom lip between his teeth, taking advantage of his surprise. Mahanon pulls Dorian’s hands to his waist. It’s permission to touch, an invitation to lead. He doesn’t go back, doesn’t make him go forward. He walks, in pace, at his side. So, Dorian wavers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	322. Clip (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Your hair keeps falling into your eyes, do you know that? Here, lemme just—” or [Holds the other’s hand when they think the other won’t notice] for fenhawke please? <3

Such an expression of carefree affection in her every touch. It’s as though she cannot hold it all inside of her, must pass it along to the others. It’s in the hand atop Merrill’s head as she walks past, with that touch slipping down, a curl of fingers against her cheeks. It leaves Merrill flush with pinked pleasure, the smile on her face. It’s the casual scratch against Aveline’s shoulder, the way she threads her fingers through Isabela’s hair. Putting an arm over Varric as she studies his card, whispers secrets close in his ear. And when Hawke sits beside him, she clasps her hands together on the table, and holds herself back. For his sake.

He’s never needed to say anything. It was in the first reach, the first flinch, and understanding in how she pulled herself back. Ever since then, she’s always asked. Now, Fenris isn’t sure if he wants her to. He pulls restlessly at the red around his wrist, and the meaning in the conversation milling about them is lost in his focus on her hands. Her fingers tap against her knuckles, and she shifts forward in her seat. Grinning at something Isabela is saying, and Anders is talking with his hands. Wide gestures, punctuated vowels. Fenris rests his hand on the table.

Slowly it moves its way across, and his fingertips come to rest at her wrist. Hawke looks down, startled for a moment, then looks up at him. A smile, and, “hello,” she says. She doesn’t mention the touch, doesn’t call attention to it. He wanted her attention. Now he has it. Clearing his throat, pulling his hand away.

“Hello,” he says. Fenris looks away from her, down at the table, and she appears at the edge of his vision. Looking back at her, leaning back with her and she’s still smiling.

“You need a haircut,” she says, words on the border of laughter, as she reaches up into her own hair. She pulls out a single clip, and a lock of hair softly falls, curls at her cheek. “Here, let me.” She moves towards him, hesitates in reaching out. He moves his head closer to her hand. She brushes his hair to one side. Catching it all in one go, and the clip swiftly follows. The laughter now breathes true, the kindest chuckle, and she bumps her shoulders against his. “You look cute.”

He scoffs as he reaches up and pulls the clip free, moves to give it back to her. She denies it with a hand raised and a shake of her head. “Keep it,” she says, “you might need it.” She turns slightly in her seat as she flags down the barmaid. She buys him beer. As she hands him the cold perspiring mug, their fingers touch. He lets it linger. It’s as close to holding her hand as he’ll get, for now.

“You know my opinion on this,” he says as he takes a sip.

“I know, but you still drink it,” she says.

“Mhmm, then perhaps I should stop,” he tells her.

“And leave me to drink it all by myself? You would never,” she says with a low grin, curling at her lips. It’s a smile he returns, hides behind another sip. He keeps the clip clenched in his other hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	323. Afraid (Cassandra x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: i never thought i’d be a killer.” Cassandra Pentaghast and Female inquisitor. Thank you!!

She sighs, and picks up her sword. Pulling herself up to her feet, meeting the demon that had knocked her down. Hacking it down, slicing off an arm, and it screams as it reels backwards. Cassandra follows through with the blow, casting it back from whence it came. It disappears into dust, ash on the wind. The Inquisitor is casting spells behind her, and Cassandra is moving forward, onto the next. It’s always such a strange thing, to watch Lavellan close a Rift. Her entire body seems to tremble, her hand reaching for something she can’t quite catch. Bursting bright, almost blinding, and there’s a gasp, as the Rift shudders, cries, is stitched back together.

Lavellan draws her hand back, staring at the still glowing anchor, still shaking arm. She pulls the glove back over her hand, pulls down her sleeve. Then she’s clenching her hand into a fist, grinning up at the rest of them. “Well that’s one down,” she says, “only a few more to go.” Inquisition scouts have been scouring every inch of Thedas. Listening to each whisper, following every rumor, tracking down the last remaining Rifts. Lavellan seems to want to close them with some frenzied urgency, for reasons she hasn’t told Cassandra. Yet.

She finds her, after, in camp. She puts a hand on Cassandra’s arm, a concerned frown between her brows. “I saw you fall earlier. Are you alright?”

“It was foolish of me,” Cassandra says dismissively. “I had my stance wrong.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“A bruise, nothing more. My wounded pride will take longer to heal.” Lavellan smiles, moves to leave. Cassandra reaches out, catches her by the wrist, and pulls her back.

“Tell me what it is,” she says. Lavellan blinks, bewildered.

“I don’t know what you mean?”

“You allow yourself no rest. We move from one area to the next. Most of the Rifts are in abandoned places and inactive. They are not urgent and yet you – tell me what’s going on.”

“There’s nothing –”

“Do not lie to me, _liebling_.” Perhaps it’s unfair of her, to use such a name, such a term. An endearment saved for when they’re in each other’s arms. Perhaps it’s unfair, but still Lavellan softens, lets her shoulders fall with defeat. Cassandra slowly lets go of her wrist. Lavellan rolls up her sleeve, pulls off the glove that covers the anchor. Always such a strange thing, to watch her close a Rift. She never thought to look at it closer. Never thought to question the way she covered herself. Green veins curl up her arms, cracked and glowing, all emanating from a weeping anchor. Sparking and angry, as though it’s on the verge of devouring Lavellan herself.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Lavellan says, in some muted whisper. “I could keep it contained, before, but now – I don’t know. I wanted, I wanted to figure it out before I showed you. But it’s only getting worse.”

They face demons at each Rift. Mindless things, filled with only want. They disappear into ash. Someone has done this to her. Not just Corypheus. Someone made the orb, put it in his hands. Only for it to fall into hers. It brought her to her but – they face demons, but Cassandra would face more. Any who did this to her. Who caused her this pain. She’s been called a killer before. She’d make it true. “We should go see a healer, and have Vivienne look at it,” she says. Lavellan only nods. Cassandra rolls down her sleeve, puts the glove back on for her.

She moves her hand to the nape of her neck, presses her forehead against hers. “It will be alright,” Cassandra tells her, desperate not to betray her real feelings. Lavellan nods, sniffles back some words. Cassandra holds her face in her hands. “It will be alright.” A kiss to her forehead, the tip of her nose, her lips. Lavellan lets herself fall forward, into her arms, into her embrace.

“I’m afraid,” she mumbles against her shoulder. Cassandra can only hold her tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	324. A Warden (Carver, F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: for @cantthinkofaname1029 on AO3: I'd be so happy to see a scene where it's the two reuniting after dai ends. That not only are they both going to be alright -- but that their future going forward as a family is bright too. The events of da2 pushed them apart, but they won't let each other be alone facing the dangers of the world anymore going forward. Basically a little capstone for if dai winds up being their last mention to show that they have a happy ending as brother and sister too.

She races down the stairs, feet pounding on each step, hand flying over the railing. She slows down when she sees him, pauses on the last step. It’s as if she takes that last one, that final thing, he might disappear. Rain sleets against the window, wind rattling the pane. It drips off his armor, off of him, pools around him “I heard what happened,” he says. “I’m glad you came here before going to Weisshaupt.” He shifts from one foot to the other. His helmet is underneath his arm. Silver and blue, the griffons on his chest. Carver looks up at her, rain in a stream down his temple, and steps forward.

“I’m coming with you,” he tells her. “Give you a little more credibility to have a real Warden with you.” It was frenzied, their last meeting. Pulling him from the grasp of other Wardens with Aveline’s help, with barely an explanation. She was gone as quickly as she had come, off to the Inquisition, keeping him at arm’s length. Then the news about Adamant Fortress came trickling in. Corypheus. The corruption of the Wardens.

He expects some biting reply. A sarcastic answer, something about not needing him at all. Instead, she opens her arms. She doesn’t mind that he’s soaking wet. Hawke sighs as she hugs him, at equal height thanks to those stairs, a hand fisted in his cloak. “I wasn’t sure if you were getting my letters. Or if you were even reading them,” she says. The stiff line of his shoulders fall. The helm is still under the arm. His other hand rests at her back.

“I got them,” he says. “You know I’m shit at writing back.” She laughs, at this, at least, hugs him tighter. She leans back, her hands on his shoulders, the smile on her face. Her tunic is soaked now, the chill evident on her skin. She brushes back his wet locks, and sighs.

“There’s no way I can convince you to stay behind, where it’s safer?” she asks.

“Not a chance,” he tells her. His things are just where he left them. His shirts are the same before he left, his drawers in much the same state. He changes into dry clothes, and they sit down for dinner together. They discuss Adamant, Weisshaupt, all the things they never imagined they’d be a part of. Things have changed since the farm in Lothering, but Hawke is throwing her head back and laughing as Carver shoves away his plate. A banter, easy back and forth, and some things haven’t changed at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [ @jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/).


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